


The Warlock

by Finfangillian



Series: The Morgan Files [1]
Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: And stubborn, Harry is mentioned a few times but only makes an appearance at the start, M/M, Morgan is a dick to short people consistently, Morgan is wrong about most things he says, Morgan thinks Justin is much better than Justin really was, Morgan's POV, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Simon has a soft spot for 1(one) foolish warden, Simon is everybody's collective Cool Grandpa, Tea as a comfort food, The Merlin also shows up at the very start and never again, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, brief mentions of homophobia back in the 50's, but he's also greiving and angry, demon attacks, dissociation caused by stress and grief, mentions of ptsd but mainly in the past, sword fights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finfangillian/pseuds/Finfangillian
Summary: Justin DuMorne is dead, and Morgan is not taking it very well. He had expected the trial to bring justice upon his friend’s killer, and he had been let down. He decides to take matters into his own hands, if for no other reason than to know what truly happened, but what he finds is the exact opposite of what he expected, and demands immediate further investigation.
Relationships: past Donald Morgan/Justin DuMorne
Series: The Morgan Files [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598305
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	1. The Trial

**Author's Note:**

> I'm excited to finally be posting this, I've been planning it for a while now. This is the first story in the Morgan Files - Eventually I hope to write Morgan's POV throughout the actual series, but I thought it'd be cool to start at the trial. (Also I may or may not have something planned as well that ends with Harry's trial...)
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

My heart skipped a beat when Ebenezar McCoy stood up. The trial had been moving along quickly, even more so than most. It seemed an open and shut case in the eyes of the majority, I could practically taste justice. 

And yet… 

“I will take the boy on. I will accept responsibility for him.” Ebenezar’s voice boomed in the vast room, silence followed his words. My heart was hammering so loudly I feared for a moment that somebody would hear it, the air around me suddenly felt too solid to breathe, and I was fearful that my legs would cease to support me. 

One month ago, Justin DuMorne was murdered by a treacherous apprentice. It still felt so strange that he was gone. The entire situation felt almost surreal. When I first heard the news of his death, I had initially thought it was a poor joke. Only the assurance of my former mentor, Anastasia Luccio, convinced me of it’s truth. Justin had been very dear to me, and for a time following his death I had hardly been able to distinguish my rage from my sadness. Truly, none of it felt real until his funeral. Closed casket, of course. 

I wished I had gotten to see him, I wanted to see his face just one last time. I wished I had gotten to give him a proper goodbye. 

“Are you sure of this, Wizard McCoy?” The wariness and annoyance in the Merlin’s voice were clear. He wanted the warlock to pay for what he had done, as did many of the Wardens. Justin had served with us, fought side by side with us, he had stood at my side as we faced down some of the most horrifying atrocities I had ever encountered. He was not just a Warden, nor was he just a member of the Council. To many of us, he was a friend. To me, he was a friend. And on more than one occasion, he had saved my life. 

I could not shake the feeling that I had failed him, somehow. He had so often been present when I most needed his help, and I had been unable to return the favour. Justin had put himself between me and death many times, probably more than I even remembered. I had done the same for him whenever I had been able, but this time, I was not there. That feeling and those thoughts were, of course, irrational. But grief does that to you. It robs you of your sense and it becomes difficult to differentiate between reality and your own wild conclusions. I could not have known his apprentice would kill him. Even if the boy’s ridiculous claims were true - Especially if the boy’s ridiculous claims were true, I could not have known. There was truly nothing I could have done. I attributed that lingering sense of guilt to the fact that I was alive while he lay charred and barely recognizable in a casket. It seemed a sensible assumption. 

“Yes.” McCoy said, his posture defiant and his tone determined. 

In truth, I did not have a very high opinion of Ebenezar McCoy, but I do not believe I ever truly hated him before that moment. I had never been quite that furious with any one person before, either. Perhaps I had been close, with men like Heinrich Kemmler. But the contempt I held for such past adversaries was far less personal, far less intimate than this. I had hated warlocks and vampires and other beasts in the past for the atrocities they committed against those I was tasked with protecting. I hated Ebenezar McCoy because he gave one of those beasts an out after slaying someone I had known for decades, someone I cared dearly for. The fury he ignited felt much more private than that from any horrors of my past. 

The Merlin hesitated. I did not notice that I was holding my breath. 

“Very well.” 

I heard a gasp somewhere behind me. 

“You know the conditions, of course.” 

McCoy nodded. 

“Harry Dresden shall be placed under the Doom of Damocles.” 

McCoy narrowed his eyes, but nodded. 

“Until he comes of age, you shall be responsible for his actions. You know what you shall be expected to do if he steps out of line, I trust?” 

Again, McCoy nodded. I bit my tongue a little too hard. 

“You are to kill him.” 

Dresden - the Warlock’s name. Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden - tensed. McCoy simply nodded. 

“So be it, then.” 

I slid my sword into its scabbard, not looking at the warlock on his knees in front of me. I heard him let out a sigh of relief, his breath shook. He slouched as another Warden approached to remove the hood from his head. 

The warlock’s floppy brown hair was a mess, and though I could not see his face I was sure I knew the kind of nervous and relieved expression he wore, I’d seen it enough times before. I would never forget his face, either. He did not look like a monster, he did not look like a person who would be on trial for murder. He looked innocent and afraid. He looked alone. When first he was apprehended, I almost didn’t believe that this boy truly stood accused of murdering my friend. 

Appearances can be quite deceptive. 

After hearing the ridiculous story he gave, I did not have any doubts. Justin DuMorne, a man I had known for the better part of my life, who I had gone through wars with, attempting to brainwash teenagers? I could hardly believe that McCoy had been fooled by the boy’s lies. 

The warlock rose. He stood nearly as tall as I did, though he was significantly more scrawny, like he was nothing but height and skin and bones. He stood up straight, and from the expression on the Merlin’s face when they looked at each other, I assumed the boy had some defiant, arrogant look. 

“Come on, kid.” McCoy said, walking past the boy, towards the doors. I narrowed my eyes as they passed me. 

The doors seemed louder than they should have in the silence. 

The White Council waited for the Merlin to speak. 

My fist clenched at my side, tight enough I was thankful to have gloves on. It took a conscious effort to keep my breathing even. 

“This meeting has come to an end. May we all return home safely.” The Merlin said. His words were clipped and it was no secret to the rest of us how he felt about the results of the trial. He had expected it to conclude with the warlock being served justice by the blade of my sword, as had I. 

I would not describe how I felt as disappointment, rather I would say it was a cold and gnawing emptiness. This had been anticipated for a month, only to be dashed by an old fool who let a lying child get the best of him. Justin had been robbed of the justice he deserved, and his killer had been allowed to walk free. It felt like a betrayal of his legacy, like we had not truly acknowledged what had happened. 

The world, both magical and mundane, had been cheated out of one of the best men I have ever met, and it felt obscene that the person responsible for his demise was not seriously punished. The Doom was better than nothing, but it was not enough. Harry Dresden needed to pay, and… Perhaps I was just paranoid, but I did not trust McCoy to carry out the sentence should the need arise. 

I supposed all I could do was hope that the old man who do what was right. 

My legs still felt weak as I left the building. The air around me still felt so thick that I could cut it with my sword. But at least my heart no longer pounded. My mind slowly began to clear, though I was still plagued by thoughts of Justin. 

His absence felt so viscerally wrong. I felt as though I should be doing something to fix it, though there was nothing I could do. The only thing that could reverse this tragedy was explicitly illegal and immoral, which automatically eliminated it as an option.

“Warden Morgan!” A deep voice with a thick Russian accent shouted as it’s owner approached me. I stopped and turned to the speaker, feeling for the first time in what felt like forever a smile tug at my mouth. Simon Pietrovich hurried towards me. He was not a small man, tall and broad and clearly someone of importance, but he was not as tall as me. And like most others who were vertically challenged, he struggled to catch up to me if I walked at a steady pace. 

I had known Simon for quite some time. In my younger years, I had spent some time at his compound in Russia. Archangel was one of the most heavily fortified and defensible fortresses I had ever had the good fortune of visiting. It’s formidable nature seemed to well reflect that of it’s Head. Granted, Simon and I had not always seen eye to eye. He had much more lenient disposition towards violators of the Laws, he had always been much more willing to give second chances. I frequently did not agree with his tolerance, but I did respect him for his integrity. Simon was the White Council’s expert on vampires. He was well educated man with over two centuries of experience to back it up. I was unsure exactly how old he was, I had never really thought it important enough to ask. Whatever the number, I was almost certain he looked remarkably good for it. His hair, short and neat, was still dark enough to tell that it had once been pitch black, despite the grey and white that was now streaked through it. His beard, course and bushy, was still strikingly dark as well. There were evident care lines in his face, mostly surrounding his dark eyes, and combined with the innate intelligence and kindness in his eyes they gave him an almost fatherly air. There was a light scar on his cheek, partially obscured by his beard. He received it decades ago, but he had so many scars I could never remember which came from where. He looked like somebody’s grandfather that had spent half of his life in the military.

Simon had also been Justin’s mentor, and I had not had a chance to speak to him since DuMorne’s death was made public. 

“How are you faring, rodnoy?” He asked as he approached, his robes billowed around his ankles as he walked. His mustache was slightly upturned, which is generally indicative of smiling for him.

I shrugged. “I have had better days, but I could be worse.” I attempted to speak casually, but my answer came out a little bit softer, a little bit more sorrowful than I intended, and I hoped he had not caught it. Simon had always had a knack for looking right through any facade I tried to put up. He had done it to me, Justin, and I’m sure countless other apprentices who made the mistake of trying to lie to him.

Unfortunately for me, it seemed I had not learned from that mistake. 

In an effort to preserve a bit of my composure, I asked “How are you?” 

Simon shrugged as well, “This is difficult to accept, hm?” He said. Dammit. Simon was a man who knew exactly how to break down my defenses in a strangely polite and courteous way, the bastard. 

I nodded. I did not trust my voice to work properly. 

He seemed to recognize that immediately. 

“You should speak your mind to me, Donald. I would appreciate it.” He said. Not many people called me by my first name. I had grown so used to being referred to only as Morgan that sometimes it felt odd when someone used my first name. Few even knew it, to begin with, though I would rather like to keep it that way. I did not particularly want everyone around me to have the same sort of familiarity that Simon and Anastasia did with me, nor did I want my Name to be common knowledge. 

Names hold power, everyone knows that. And I had made my fair share of enemies who would be all too happy to gain power over me. 

Simon always had an uncanny sense of what was really going on underneath the good faces I tried to maintain. In the years following the fall of Kemmler, he had been one of the first to notice the… Unhealthy habits I had picked up. At the time I hated him for it, I had wished he’d just leave me to drown in liquor and misery. But he had dragged me back to my feet and dusted me off, and for that I would always be grateful. It occured to me that he may have been concerned I would trip back onto that path in the wake of Justin’s death, and I would have been a liar to say I had not been planning on going home and having a drink or two. But in the years since the 60’s, I had become much better about regulation and self preservation. 

“I miss him,” I said. Simon put a hand on my arm and squeezed lightly.

“As do I, rodnoy.” There was sorrow in his voice and empathy in his eyes. “As do I.” 

We were both silent for a few moments. I realised I had begun to slouch and corrected my posture - I used to have an awful habit of slouching. Anastasia had been rather adamant in making sure it was quickly broken when I was an apprentice. 

Simon was the one to finally break the silence, and for half a second it almost felt like a relief when he did. 

“I know this cannot be an easy conclusion to accept,” he began. I knew where this was going. “But it would be unwise to continue to dwell on it. It would only bring you down.” That was Simon’s way of telling me to not attempt to investigate the matter on my own time. 

I understood why he would tell me to leave it alone, I understood his concern. But I was unsure if I would be able to sleep at night if I let this die so easily. For decades Justin had been at my side, through good times and bad. He had saved me more times than I could even remember, I owed my life to him a thousand times over. I would have done nearly anything for him, if only he had asked me to. I cared for him more deeply than I had though possible before I met him. The thought of letting his death go by in such a manner sickened me. I could not just sit back and do nothing, regardless of whether doing something was actually a good idea or not. I felt it necessary. 

For the first time in years, I felt the familiar itch of craving a cigarette. I ignored the impulse, electing to think about it later if it bothered me again. 

“I don’t know if I can do that, Simon.” I said. DuMorne deserved justice, and I would be sure that he got it.

Simon sighed and ran a hand through his short, dark hair. The remains of his faint smile vanished, replaced with a careful expression of concern. “It would not do you well to remain hung up on it. Moving on will take time, it is best if you begin now.” He paused. It was evident he was trying to choose his words with caution. I appreciated the intent behind it, but I did not enjoy feeling like I was thought to be fragile. Being perceived as delicate would do me very little good, and I must admit that my own pride could hardly handle it. “You must let it go sometime, Donald. Holding on to this will not bring him back.” Simon murmured gently. 

I knew that. I hated to hear it, but I knew it. Nothing would bring him back. The thought was profoundly upsetting. 

“I want to know what really happened.” I said. The anger that remained after the trial began to rise up again. “You must admit, Dresden’s claims - They sounded ridiculous! Justin would never do such a thing.” 

Perhaps part of why this felt so profoundly unjust, so genuinely horrific, was allowing the warlock to go free seemed to say that we accepted his story. That we believed it. Believed that Justin fucking DuMorne was a warlock, the very thing he had fought for years with the Wardens. I could not stand to think that we had just… Let Dresden get away with both killing and slandering such a great man.

It was disgusting. 

“It did sound… Improbable, but-”

“But, what? Maybe Justin was evil? That’s impossible. That’s completely impossible.” I felt a little bad for interrupting Simon, but I would not allow Justin’s good name to be stepped on any more. Besides, it was rude to speak ill of the dead. 

And he was. 

He was dead. 

I could still hardly believe it. 

“Assuming Dresden did lie right to the Merlin and the entire Council, what makes you think he would tell the truth to you?” Simon practically growled. “This is not a good idea. I must advise against it.” 

I did not plan to interrogate the warlock himself. Simon was right, that would be fruitless. I was sure I would just receive the same absurd lies he had given before. I had no intention of wasting my time on something I was confident would yield no useful information. However, I had been a Warden for a very long while. I was sure I could come up with a better method of investigating than merely continuing to question a lying child who had already been questioned. 

“It may not be a good idea, but it must be done. I cannot let Justin’s memory be tainted by a warlock.” I asserted. Simon seemed to see that trying to talk me out of this was destined to fail. He sighed again and gave me an almost sympathetic expression. 

“I hope you are able to find peace, Morgan. I really do.” Simon said, “I know he was… Important to you, but… I hope you can let go.” I had almost forgotten that Simon was one of the few people who were aware of just how close Justin and I really were. Not many people knew, and when he was alive, both of us thought it would be best if it stayed that way. Had it been common knowledge, the likelihood of us being used against each other would have skyrocketed. Neither of us wanted that. 

Now that he was gone… I wanted it to remain a well kept secret for purely selfish reasons. I would lose my mind if I had to hear empty wishes of ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ a thousand times. I did not need or want anyone’s pity.

I gave Simon a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Thank you,” I muttered. 

The slight upward curve of his mustache returned with the faint smile underneath. He gave me a light pat on the shoulder and tugged at the collar of his robe for a moment. 

“I must return to Archangel, but if you are in need of anything, you can always come to us.” Simon said. “It would be good to have you back at home.” The meaning of his words was not lost on me. He was offering me a place to go if I needed to get away from everything for a little while. Justin’s death, the trial… Even just the upkeep of Chicago itself. I appreciated the offer. Maybe I would even take him up on it once my questions were answered. But for the time being, it was important that I remain here. 

Simon’s expression, despite our disagreement, was still one of compassionate, almost patriarchal grace. I was probably incredibly lucky that he had a good handle on his temper, else it was likely that he would have lost it at me on several occasions throughout the time we had known each other. He extended his hand to me, the small gesture conveyed endlessly good intentions. I considered myself lucky to know Simon far more often than not.

I returned the slight smile and shook his hand.

“I hope I will see you soon, rodnoy.” He said.

“As do I.” 

With another kindly glance and a brief hug, Simon left. He strode confidently towards a couple people clad in Council robes who I assumed were residents of Archangel, waiting to return with him. 

I turned my back to him as he left, deciding where to go from here. The thought of returning home and spending a quiet evening with scotch and a book was incredibly tempting, but I would hardly be able to focus on a book. I would be plagued with unanswered questions and unwanted thoughts until I did something about it. So I settled on the course of action I hoped was most likely to yield something worthwhile. 

As I walked, I untied the stole at my waist and slipped the grey robe off my shoulders. Underneath I wore formal black pants and a slightly wrinkled white shirt. I’d left my jacket in the battered but reasonably well maintained pick-up that seemed to be able to handle being in close proximity with a wizard. 

Technology had a habit of seriously malfunctioning in the presence of mages. I had little to no luck with almost anything made after World War II. The fact that my truck was apparently formidable enough to deal with magic was almost enough to consider a genuine miracle. 

I opened the black door with a dent in it - what had caused the dent, I did not remember - and tossed the bunch of grey fabric in the backseat. I climbed in, brushed a stray strand of my dark hair behind my ear, shut the door, and left in the direction of where Justin’s home used to be. But where now there sat only a pile of charred ruins.

I intended to find the truth and herald justice for DuMorne, and it seemed that the best place to start would be where it happened. Perhaps, if I was lucky, the Wardens who had initially searched the grounds had missed something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rodnoy (родной ) - Russian term of endearment (comparable to dear/darling, also meaning 'own') If I've used this wrong though please feel free to let me know, I'm not really versed in Russian and I would appreciate the feedback!
> 
> I like the idea of this so....
> 
> The Trial Suggested Listening, in no particular order:
> 
> Quiet Water (Undertale OST, Extended)
> 
> I feel Like I'm Drowning (Two Feet)
> 
> Far From Home/The Raven (Sam Tinnesz)
> 
> Hostage (Billie Eilish)
> 
> Six Feet Under (Billie Eilish)
> 
> No Adrenaline (Valiant Hearts OST)
> 
> Smother (Daughter)
> 
> Constellations (The Oh Hello's)
> 
> Do I Wanna Know (Hozier cover)
> 
> Still Sane (Lorde)
> 
> May I Stand Unshaken (RDR2 Soundtrack)


	2. The Wreckage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan: *pats his chest* I will keep all of my feelings in here, and then one day, I will die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the gayest chapter

The drive to the site of Justin’s former home was a bit of a long one, but I had no shortage of things to occupy my mind. I had almost forgotten how lovely it was around the middle-of-nowhere farm DuMorne had resided in. Everything was very peaceful, very quiet. I was a little bit envious, in truth. When I was much younger, I dreamed of a serene life like this. Of a family, a quiet plot of land, perhaps by a river. Before I came into my powers, I thought I would be a blacksmith. I had never had any notions of greatness or bravado. Such a content life, however, was an unrealistic expectation for Wardens.

If I ever were to have a family, they would be in constant danger. They would lead uncertain and perilous lives, and I would not always be around to look after them. I had quite a substantial list of powerful entities that would happily eviscerate me if they got the chance, and I hardly wanted to think about how giddy those same beasts would be if they found out I had loved ones. Not to mention, certain aspects of a Warden’s life would carry over to them as well. There was always a chance we would have to pick up and run off to a different continent for months at a time, or even indefinitely if I were to be reassigned. And if I were to die… My life was always on the line, I was never truly safe anymore. I had been at this long enough that I had been forced to accept the ever present and unyielding threat of death, or worse. Most of us had to do that, at some point or another. I knew what it was like to be close to a Warden, too. It was frantic calls in the small hours of the morning, waiting outside hospitals praying to whatever god would listen, having secrets that could mean the end of their life if the wrong person found out. It was learning first aid through hands on experience, stitches at 4 am in the bathroom, throwing out clothes because the blood stains won’t come out or because they were ripped to make a hasty bandage. It was having weapons hidden around your home and more locks than normal on your door, having to carry talismans so your wards didn’t kill you when you came home at a ridiculous hour after not sleeping for several days. 

If I ever had a child, there was the possibility that they would happen to see me torn up after a bout with some nasty creatures. How would I explain to a young child that the monsters they feared lingered under their bed had done this to me, that those things really were lurking in the dark, waiting to get a shot at us all? God forbid any of those nasty creatures decided to pay my child a visit when I was not around to protect them.

This life is not a glamorous one, and anyone that attempts to claim it is, is a liar. 

Justin had been different, though. He was skilled, capable, cunning even. He’d been trained by one of the best Wizards either of us had the pleasure of knowing, and he could damn well defend himself if he needed to. I did still worry about him, of course. He was important to me. But I was well aware he would be able to best most things that would come his way and at least drag himself away from it alive. 

I had seen Justin fight countless times, I had seen what he was capable of. And my knowledge of his skills only served to make me more skeptical about Dresden’s story. I found it overwhelmingly difficult to believe that Justin would have ever been beaten by someone that young and inexperienced. 

The property was visible from a mile or two away, and it was difficult to miss even if you weren’t looking for it. A month ago, there had stood a stately old home three stories high, with grey trim around the windows and doors, and a chimney that never seemed to cease producing smoke. Justin, like most of us, had not had a heater, only a hearth. I suppose that may be what mortal authorities assumed started the fire.

Now, all that remained of the once austere and secluded manor was blackened planks who appeared ready to keel over at any moment. I was a little surprised that anything still stood at all. The remains of the house must have endured bad weather in the month since they had burned, and the ruins gave the impression that they would collapse if I looked at them a little wrong. What used to be a beautiful home, reduced to ash. Everything looked remarkably fragile. I was slightly concerned that the brittle structures would finally let go and come crashing down while I was looking around, but that is what shields are for.

As I stepped out of the truck onto the gravel of the driveway, I removed my gloves and breathed in the stale and unpleasant air. The whole place had a rather ghostly atmosphere, it was almost enough to unsettle me. I could feel the weight of the wreckage, the crushing burden of what had occurred here. A part of me wanted to use my Sight to look at the devastation, but I was unsure if I would be able to handle it. And even if I could not, I would never be able to forget the image. 

That’s the thing about the Sight. What you see with it stays seared into your mind forever. It never fades, not even a little bit. You can never forget whatever horrible things you see with it, no matter how much you may want to. 

I decided against it. I did not need help feeling like utter shit at the moment, and I could not imagine that looking at the site of Justin’s murder with the third eye would do anything to make that better. 

Maybe another time, if I ever returned here after this. 

Practically nothing remained of the second floor, let alone the third. Most of the upper stories were dust on the wind somewhere. Even if they had still been intact, I was not sure I would have dared to ascend to them. I would be incredibly wary of attempting to use stairs that were both old, and burned to a crisp. The fact that most of the intact things that used to be upstairs were not strewn about in the settled dust seemed to be, in a troubling way, a small mercy. 

A gust of wind whipped by as I approached the desolate wreck, blowing about some of the residue. I half expected the precarious walls to topple over with the gale, but they remained steadfast. I was thankful for it, too. Searching for salvageable evidence would be considerably more difficult if the rest of the house decided it had had enough of being upright. 

Once the ashes settled again, something caught my eye. 

At first I thought it was just my eyes playing tricks on me, surely I could not be so lucky as to just be handed something intact. But upon closer inspection, I found I was incorrect. 

Amidst the scorched and unrecognizable fragments of what used to be the contents of Justin’s library lay a small scrap - a photograph, surrounded by bits of broken glass and what must have been the frame it was once displayed in. It was burnt around the edges, one of the faces in it was a little obscured by the singe and smoke damage, but I recognized it all the same. It was old, black and white and slightly discoloured by time. Justin and I stood, side by side, in front of a glorious tower - Archangel. The picture was taken when we were both still residing there. I had an arm propped on his shoulder and was leaning on him, his expression was somewhere between attempting to look angry and laughing. He always insisted he hated it when I used him as an armrest, but he was never able to say it with a straight face. 

Justin was a bit under a foot shorter than me, and consistently made a point of the height difference when he was displeased about being so tiny. It was cute. 

I would miss it. 

He and I were hardly recognizable in the photograph. We looked young, carefree, entirely at ease. It felt strange to see my face like that again. Justin’s too. The years had weathered us both considerably. This was taken before either of us had any wrinkles in our faces or scars that refused to fade. Before our hair began to grey, even before I had decided to have mine long. Both of us looked fresh out of apprenticeship. Clean shaven and jovial to the point that I barely saw myself in the picture. I looked like a completely different person, I was reasonably sure that if I were to tell someone that had not known me back then that the boy in the photo was me, they would call me a liar. 

Justin had not changed as much. He had managed to hang onto his good nature and still had the appearance of a cheery disposition for much longer than I had. 

There had been a stark change in the both of us at certain points in our lives. When our youthful naivety had finally been fully cast aside. I remembered mine clearly, I remembered the exact moment that it occurred, it was not the sort of thing that is easily forgotten. I had steadily lost my former optimism starting in the 20’s, but it culminated in the mid 40’s. Justin had kept his hopefulness into the late 80’s. I had to commend him for it, it must have been a struggle to hold on to such a blithe attitude through all of the horrors we lived through. 

I tucked the photograph into my coat. It was not what I had come to search for, but I was glad I found it nonetheless. Though it was damaged, it still served as a reminder of better times, and I was in no position to be discarding good memories.

I tried not to let the dampness on my cheek bother me. I wiped my eyes dry and continued to look, wasting time being sad would do nobody any good. 

The grey sky looked like it had darkened a shade or two since I arrived, and a couple more cold gales had blown by. Such weather felt appropriate, sunshine would be almost obscene. Though, regardless of how fitting the rain would feel, I did not want to get caught out in it. With luck, I would find something of use - if anything was left, of course. I was relying quite heavily on the Wardens who previously searched the house’s remains to have overlooked something. And if they had, I would be caught between keeping my endeavours private, and reprimanding whoever had been responsible for the search for their sloppiness. Justin was more important than making sure Wardens could dig through ash and dust well enough, though. I would just have to come to terms with it if something substantial did turn up. 

I kept searching for a good long while, and for most of it I had nothing to show. The fire had done quite a thorough job of destroying everything there was to destroy. There were little bits and pieces, I ran across a couple of spoons, what appeared to have once been a bottle, though I was not sure what had been in it. The room that had the most surviving items was the kitchen, but pots and pans would do little to help me. There were seared and deformed appliances from a few decades ago - Justin had had an icebox instead of a modern refrigerator, and it had fared reasonably well for something that had been on fire and had two stories of a house fall on it. Not a single cabinet was still in it’s right place, though I did see a couple of metal bits that could have been their handles. In truth, I expected the room to yield absolutely nothing but random scraps of metal and unsalvageable cookware. I was just about ready to abandon it and move onto the next when I unearthed the most valuable thing I could have found, lying in not the worst condition under a pile of charred pans. 

A journal, old, tattered, bound in brown leather with the scorched remains of the string once used to tie it shut. The cover was deformed, burned in places, and it looked thinner than it should, but I was ecstatic. The thing smelled of smoke and something that felt familiar, but that I could not quite place. There was no inscription on it, which was a little odd. Most of the books I had seen Justin scribbling in over the years had something inscribed on the cover, something about  _ ‘it’s for the aesthetic value’ _ . But this was just blank leather. Had it not been so severely damaged, it would have been a very nice journal. There were pages missing towards the back, though I did not think that was the fault of the fire. The back cover was intact so I assumed the pages had been torn out, which also seemed out of the ordinary. He had crossed things out, yes, but I could not remember Justin tearing pages out of his books, always claimed it would be a waste. The fact that there appeared to be significant chunk gone made it even stranger. Though that was an issue to consider when I was back at home, as opposed to standing in the middle of a field surrounded by the spectral ruins of my friend’s home. 

I briefly flipped through the remaining pages to see how much of the text would still be readable. The first few looked to be in reasonably good condition, and I immediately recognized the small, precise handwriting that matched his letters perfectly. Near the end of what was left, though, the writing seemed to get progressively messier, like he’d written it all in a hurry. 

Attempting to decipher it here would not do, so I tried my best to put the irregularities of the journal out of my mind until later, and the little book joined the photograph in my coat. The sky looked like it was on the verge of opening up, but I did not want to leave yet, I was not yet ready to go. It was a very childish inclination, but I felt that I was not alone. Like he was still here. That was ridiculous, but it was almost comforting.

Almost.

But not quite.

Something I have encountered a lot during my time as a Warden is the grieving family members of fallen comrades, and I have lost count of how many said they could still feel the presence of their loved one. I had always assumed it was just wishful thinking, and now that I was the one that believed my dear one was still around, I assumed no different. There had been no evidence that his spirit still lingered, I had not heard any voice in my ear or felt a touch on the shoulder as so many claim to, all I had was a feeling, born out of grief. 

I would have been silly to listen to it, when I had spent so many years dismissing the exact same thing in others. 

The first faint rumbles of thunder sounded in the distance and as much as I may have wanted to, lingering any longer did not seem a good idea. The drive home was long, and most of it would already be in the dark. 

As I returned to the truck, I checked the inner pocket of my coat to be sure both the little leather volume and the photograph were still there. It was likely I would have noticed had either of them fallen out, it was a concern entirely born of my own paranoia. Of course, everything was still in its right place, but there was something else in my pocket as well, something I did not remember picking up.

Small, round, metal, shallow grooves around the sides. 

I took it out of my pocket.

The ring was cold against my skin, but I recognized it. 

I had given it to Justin in the early 50’s, a token of affection. Officially, it didn’t mean anything, it couldn’t have. Even if we’d bothered to throw a ceremony for it, such a thing was illegal, and severely frowned upon back then. If anyone asked about it, he didn’t even say it had come from me. Called it a family heirloom instead. That was safer, for both of us. I hated that, of course, but it was what was best. 

He always had hope that one day such a ring would really mean something, to more than just us.

Now, if that chance ever did arise, he would not see it. 

The thought was both infuriating and depressing, and it only made me more determined to bring Justin’s killer to justice. I could not bear the thought that that  _ bastard  _ would continue to live and just.. Get away with slaying DuMorne. It was disgusting, it was the most explicit and horrible injustice I could imagine, and I would not let it stand. 

Even if I wanted to, I could not let this go. I would never be able to forgive myself, not after how many years I had known DuMorne. Not after how important he had been to me, how  _ good  _ of a man he was. 

This world did not deserve to be subjected to such a beast as would strike down Justin DuMorne, for only one with the darkest, vilest soul would commit such an act of pure wickedness. I still could not comprehend how the Council would allow McCoy to just whisk the foul swine away like that, how they could just accept such a thing. Who could know what he would do, if McCoy neglected his responsibility to put an end to the warlock? How many more people would Dresden hurt? Hell, would he make an attempt on McCoy’s life? If he had been brash enough to attack Justin, how could any of us be sure he would not do the same to Ebenezar? 

I tucked the ring back into my jacket’s inner pocket, and returned to the truck. 

As I opened the worn door and got in, a couple of raindrops fell on the windshield. I laid the photograph and journal on the passenger’s seat, but left the ring in my coat… Because I did not want it to get stuck in the seat. I did not want to run the risk of losing it so soon after finding it. 

Somehow. 

However it manifested in my coat was an issue for later, when I was home and could make tea. 

It was odd, I thought I could feel the weight of the little metal bit against my chest as I drove away.

I dismissed that as something to consider later, as well. The drive was a long one, and the sky was beginning to darken. I did not want to be distracted by my grief and feelings that were probably nothing more than my own irrational inventions. 

The rain followed me all the way home, not letting up for an instant. I didn’t mind it as much as I normally would. The sound of the drops hitting the truck’s roof was better than the alternative quiet. It gave me something to focus on, something real and consistent. The rain served as a distraction and in a way, a comfort. 

It felt like the world knew it had lost a great man, and it felt it too. 

As it should. 

It was only right that the sky itself acknowledge what the world had been robbed of. 

Finally I reached my domicile, a comfortable house of two stories, pleasantly removed from the heart of Chicago - I was not particularly suited to the franticness of city life. Perhaps I would have preferred to reside in the soul of the city when I was young, but as the years wore on I found that I did not desire such a feverish atmosphere as down-town’s generally had. 

Thanks to the rain, I did not see the car parked on the street in front of my home until I was already in the driveway. It was sleek, well maintained, and appeared to be dark red or purple, though I could not quite tell. 

For a moment, I was worried. 

I did not recognize the vehicle, and thanks to the Council’s earlier gathering, any number of foolish and unpleasant things could have decided now would be a good time to come cause trouble of one sort of another. It could be a vampire, come to try to kill me. A warlock, perhaps an associate of Dresden or his mother - 

“Good evening, Morgan.” The voice of my former mentor, Anastasia Luccio, called from my now open front door. 

I wondered for a moment if she had picked the lock or found the spare key. 

“I was beginning to wonder if you had taken a vacation and not informed me.” The humour she intended was not lost on me, but I did not have the heart to laugh at it. 

“I don’t take vacations,” I replied, hurrying to the cover of the porch. I left the photograph and journal in my truck, I did not want Anastasia to question me about them. At least not this night.

“I am aware. You really should try it sometime, though. It may do you good.” 

I scoffed slightly. “You sound like Simon.” 

“Perhaps Simon is right.” 

“Perhaps.” 

“I need to have words with you, Donald.” Her voice was low and her tone serious. It concerned me, and I was not in a position to have a serious discussion. But I could not exactly turn the Captain away. 

I gave her a brief nod. 

As we retreated inside my home, I shut the door. “Would you like a cup of tea?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working under the assumption that Harry's trial took place in the late 80's/early 90's (Gay marriage was legalized in Illinois in 2013)
> 
> The Wreckage Suggested Listening: 
> 
> Hello my old heart (The Oh Hellos)
> 
> Quiet Water (Undertale OST, extended)
> 
> Wish you were here (Florence and the Machine)
> 
> Take me to Church (Hozier)
> 
> Lovely (Billie Eiligh and Khalid)
> 
> Ain't no sunshine when she's gone (Bill Withers)
> 
> The Best I can (Miracle of Sound)
> 
> Shrike (Hozier)
> 
> Hurts Like Hell (Fleurie)
> 
> Over The Love (Florence and the Machine)
> 
> You Are the Moon (The Hush Sound)
> 
> Dancing After Death (Matt Maeson)


	3. The Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan is bad at handling his emotions and Anastasia is a personified bullshit detector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the title of this chapter a janky les mis reference? Pfft... Okay yeah it is. Buckle up and hold on, prepare for more angst.

Anastasia had an uncanny ability similar to Simon’s, though she had two distinct advantages over him. 

Anastasia had known me for longer than Simon had, and she had spent a significantly larger chunk of time around me when I was young. 

Simon was gifted at picking apart my defences, but if he was an expert, Anastasia was a master. It was impossible to hide things from her. And if it was possible, I had yet to find a way. Anastasia possessed a supernatural power to look right through me and see everything I did not want seen, and as far as I was concerned it was inevitable. 

She took a seat on my couch, crossed one leg over the other. She did not lean back, her posture remaining rigid. 

The Captain was a tall woman with dark, striking eyes and iron grey hair cut short that had just a few strands of black still peppered within it. She gave off an aura of fearlessness and wisdom, and was not known for putting up with nonsense. She was a brilliant teacher, as well. I considered myself very lucky to have been able to apprentice under her. Anastasia truly was one of the best of us, and not a soul with any sense would tell you otherwise. 

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” She gave a slight bow of her head. Another almost supernatural ability that Captain Luccio possessed was making all of her movements look more graceful than those of an Olympic diver. She put the most practised dancers to shame with the simplest everyday tasks, I had never met anyone who possessed more natural elegance than she. 

I nodded, ducking into my kitchen. It was unfortunately rather barren at the time, I had not had a chance to buy any groceries as of late. There were still some things, basic things. Bread, butter, tea, essentials. Nothing elaborate. 

I flicked the knob on my gas stove and set the teakettle on. I was nervous about going back out, facing Anastasia. It felt incredibly childish, but I was afraid she was angry with me. I would much rather avoid Captain Luccio’s wrath whenever possible, for a very long list of reasons. 

“Must I come in there if I wish to speak with you?” She called. 

I swallowed, stepped out, leaned against the doorway. 

The Captain gave me a look, like she already knew how the conversation would play out before she even told me what it was about. 

To her credit, she probably did. 

“Simon is concerned.” 

I didn’t dare to meet her gaze. A Soulgaze was not a concern, that had happened over a century ago, but I did not want to see the knowing expression I was sure she wore. 

“I know.” I murmured. There was silence for a moment. 

“I am concerned.” 

That hit me in a different way. Anastasia cared about my well being, of course, but she had always been much less… Fussy, over my health than Simon had. It took much more to push her into genuine worry. 

“You are not handling this well.” She said. I assumed she meant DuMorne’s death, as opposed to the trial. Surely it was too soon after the proceedings for concrete judgement of my coping methods. 

Anastasia crossed one leg over the other and rested her hands in her lap. I made the mistake of looking at her face. I did not know if it was intentional or simply a natural product of her years and general no-nonsense demeanor, but Captain Luccio had a way of making you feel incredibly small with not more than a little glance. 

She had not had that same effect on me when I was young. When I first became her apprentice I was reckless, mischievous, rebellious even. I had caused no small amount of problems for myself in my youth, I had been troublesome even before I came into my power. Magic had only enabled me to insight issues in new and arguably worse ways. Hell, I was a large part of the reason that the Captain had a list of evocations that were banned in the Warden’s barracks - a fact she has never let me live down, and that I still refused to explain to the younger Wardens who asked. 

As the years wore on though, I was unsure if I was the one that changed - just become more susceptible to her, or if she had just become more adept at silently bending my traitorous emotions to her will, but she gained yet another advantage over me. 

“Did you expect me to?” I replied, my voice much softer than it normally was. I was not good with these sorts of conversations, nor did I enjoy them. Normally I liked the Captain’s company, but now I was already anticipating when the encounter would end. I felt guilty for that, though. Anastasia was concerned for my well being, she wanted to make sure I was alright. I did truly appreciate the sentiment, but I would much rather avoid these sorts of confrontations. I could never handle them with any real grace. 

Captain Luccio shook her head, a sorrowful smile adorning her features. “No. But I did not expect you to obsess over it. Perhaps I underestimated the depth of your attachment to Wizard DuMorne.” There was a hint of disapproval in her voice, and I must admit that it stung.

Perhaps she had. I suppose she must have. 

I only shrugged in response. The screech of the kettle gave me a brief respite from the conversation while I turned off the stove and poured two cups of tea. 

There was little I would not have given to have been by myself, going through the mysterious little journal I had discovered in the remains of Justin’s home. Another pang of guilt hit me - _Anastasia only wanted to be sure that I was alright._ Surely I could endure one heartfelt talk, if only for her peace of mind? By the gods, I had not been prepared for this. 

I emerged from the kitchen and set both mugs on the coffee table. The Captain had not moved, nor had her expression of concern and what I thought appeared to be vague dismay changed. 

I sat down in a chair opposite the sofa. 

Captain Luccio picked up her mug. 

I held my breath. 

“Where were you this evening?” She asked. She lightly blew on the steaming liquid before taking a small sip, all the while looking at me over the edge of the mug. The look made me think she already knew the answer, but that was just my own paranoia. It had to be. 

Surely there was no way Anastasia could know, I had not even hinted to Simon where I intended to go.

I was unsure if I should tell her or not, but she spoke again before I was able to think of a decent lie. I did not _want_ to be dishonest with Captain Luccio, I really did not. But… This investigation was not something I would be capable of relenting. 

“Simon was afraid you were drinking again.” She said. She paused briefly to take another sip of her tea. I did not have the heart to pick mine up yet, and I blankly stared at it as Anastasia continued. “I must admit, Donald, I was… Somewhat concerned about that as well. The past month, you have not been yourself.” 

I would not be able to lie, even if I were to come up with a good excuse. I could not lie to Anastasia, I would not have been able to regardless of if I actually wanted to. 

“I haven’t been.” I rasped. I could hardly recognize my own voice, and for a moment I thought I understood what the Captain meant. 

Another sorry smile graced her lips. “I can tell,” she murmured, nearly under her breath. I almost did not hear her, her voice was soft enough as to be barely audible. As though she had intended to speak more to herself than to me. 

Words escaped me. How was I meant to respond? There was nothing that seemed like it was just the right thing to say. In truth, I rarely knew what to say at times like this. I have never been good at the whole… Heart to heart. I settled for replying with a slow nod. 

“I am still worried for you, however.”

_Fuck._

She took a long drink from her tea and finally looked away from me. It felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders when she shifted her gaze. 

I tried to think of something to say, anything that would make this a little easier. If not for myself, I at least wanted to make the Captain feel a little bit better. But I could not lie to her, I would not have been able to regardless of desire or intentions of sparing her emotions. Good intentions are not worth very much at moments such as these. 

As they say, anyways, the road to Hell is paved with those damn things. 

They are a fragile excuse for foolish people. 

Despite my apparent inability to lie to Captain Luccio, I also sincerely did not want to tell her the truth. 

“Have you had dinner yet?” I asked. She was attempting to look after me, it was only polite that I look after her in return. And given what I knew about the Captain and her habits and schedule, the answer was more than likely no.

Over the years, Anastasia had chided me frequently for my poor sleeping patterns, and the times I would neglect to eat. Such things had become persistent occurrences over my time in the Wardens, especially during war times. She would give me lectures every time I did not eat when I should have, or when I fell asleep in the Worry Room. Which happened more frequently than I would care to admit. It was not my fault that the Worry Room was so damned comfortable. 

The first smile she’d worn all evening that had any happiness attached to it appeared on her kind face. She shook her head. “I have been quite busy today, I have not had a chance to dine.” 

It was almost like I knew her reasonably well, too. 

I allowed myself to return the smile. “Perhaps that should be addressed.” 

“Perhaps it should. What shall you make me?” There was a hint of good humour in her voice, which I greatly appreciated. She could easily have been insistent on continuing the conversation. It would have been no small tax upon both of us, though, if she had kept pressing. And we both knew that. I was grateful that she had allowed a lull in our talk. Perhaps by the time I was finished cooking, I would have even been able to think of something half decent to say. 

I was pleased when she did not protest to my offer of food, as well. Anastasia had a lot of pride, but she had the good sense as well to not let it cloud her judgement, more often than not. Thanks to that I would dare say she was one of the wisest people I had the pleasure of knowing. 

“Well, my selection of ingredients is… Mildly limited at the moment. But I can offer you…” I rose, arbitrarily taking notice of my neglected cup of tea that still sat, getting cold on the coffee table as I passed into the kitchen. 

Everything was in pristine order, it was organized, clean, and utterly barren of decent food. I had been very… Occupied, as of late. Unfortunately, I had not thought to buy groceries. Regardless, I dug through the cabinets and pitifully stocked icebox in earnest, surely there was something that I could concoct. 

The only option that seemed sincerely worth mentioning quickly came to my attention. 

“I can offer you grilled cheese sandwiches.” I announced. 

Anastasia laughed, and I felt another genuine smile play at my lips. Again I silently thanked whatever gods were willing to hear me that I had succeeded in lightening the mood, even just a little bit, even just for a little while. 

I swore to myself I would talk to her. Maybe not tonight, but I would. As soon as I figured out how. 

Another delicately cheerful chuckle reached my ears. It was like sweet music, it had a singularly calming effect, and I was glad for it. 

There was a lingering feeling of guilt, though, present still in my gut. I feared that her laugh had been fake, that she was simply acting pleasant now to humour me until she thought I would finally be willing to answer what questions she had yet to ask. This was irrational, and I knew it. Both of us had suffered in the past month, in our own rights. I did not hold any illusions that Anastasia actually _wanted_ to have this conversation, I knew in my heart she only tried because she felt it necessary. Neither of us cared much for such frivolous talks, I assumed Simon must have had quite a hand in convincing her this was truly needed. I knew she was just as grateful for anything to lift the spirit as I was.

I knew that. 

And yet, I could barely believe it. 

“You have not led me astray with food yet,” she called. “I shall accept grilled cheese sandwiches.” 

“Thank the gods. There does not appear to be another option.” 

Another laugh, light and harmonious. I smiled as I began pulling the few necessary ingredients together. 

The work did not require sharp focus, so I attempted to think of something to say when the heavier topic inevitably came up again. 

The problem was not that I did not trust Anastasia, I did. There were few people I trusted even half as much as I did the Captain. I had known her for most of my life, and I did not think another soul knew me better than she. And if it were easy, I would have told her whatever she wanted to know. If I thought I could properly enunciate my emotions, I would. If I knew the words that would let me truly speak my mind to her, I would not hesitate to do so. But no matter how I attempted to phrase things in my mind, nothing felt right. 

It was all either too blunt and impersonal, or not ardent enough. How was I to describe to her what it felt like to lose that which I loved the most, and then watch the sordid wretch that took it from me simply… Walk free, away from his punishment? Saved by an old fool who let a treacherous little child get the best of him? 

I hardly understood much of what I felt myself, and I could not fathom how to accurately convey it to Anastasia. 

The Captain distracted me before I got very far with that train of thought, anyways. I suppose I would simply have to improvise when the time came again. 

She stood in the doorway, cup of tea in hand, watching me work.

As most people know, the crafting a grilled cheese sandwich is not exactly a riveting process. 

I put butter in the pan, waited for her to speak. 

“You look like you have something to say.” 

Not what I expected. 

I shook my head. “Not particularly.” Which was true. I still did not know how to say what she wanted to hear, and I was beginning to wonder if I would truly be able to make it through an explanation with my composure intact, if I were to give one. Tearing up in front of the Captain was not high on my list of things I would like to do. As a matter of fact, it was at the very bottom. The only items below tearing up in front of Captain Luccio were go another fifty years fighting Heinrich Kemmler with nothing but a broken garden spade, and letting go of my investigation.

Anastasia gave a deep sigh. She sipped her tea and tapped on the mug with her index fingers. 

“I will not pry.” She stated after a few moments of silence. “But, it is obvious there is something weighing on you, Donald. I could probably guess quite easily what it is, but I would sincerely appreciate if you would speak plainly to me about it instead. It would make this easier on the both of us, I should think.”

I sighed. 

“I do not know what to say.” My words were accompanied by a dry, humourless chuckle, more meant to fill the silence than anything else. “I don’t know what to say,” I repeated, more to myself than to the Captain. I could hear my voice waver as I spoke. Again, I barely recognized it as mine. 

That was a little bit frightening, if I am being honest. I could remember a time a few decades ago when I did not recognize my own voice, right after the Council finally put an end to Kemmler’s reign of terror. A few years in the mid 60’s were something of a blur. I did not remember many details from those years, nor did I want to, but one thing I remembered - albeit hazily - was how it felt to look at my reflection and not know the man looking back at me. I remembered what it felt like to speak, and feel as though I was hearing a different person’s voice. 

It was not a good feeling. At the time, I had been trapped in too thick a haze to realise how scary it really was. Now though, I could think clearly, and I did not want to experience those things, ever again. 

Anastasia gave me a sympathetic look. She set her tea on the counter and laid her hand gently on my arm. Her touch drew me back to reality, the here and now, like a lighthouse on a foggy night. 

She could see the fear, the discomfort, the uncertainty, and I knew it. She had been around for all of it, when last it had occurred. She had been there when I was at my lowest, and there was not a doubt in my mind that she would always remember what my lowest looked like. The descent to it, too. Based on some of the things Simon had only told me years after he was positive I had been firmly set back on my own two feet, I was glad that my memories from those years were spotty at best. 

“I see.” There was no annoyance in her voice, and for that I was thankful. I did not enjoy wearing on the Captain’s patience. She exhaled slowly, hand still lightly resting on my bicep. I was glad she left her hand, it served as a comfort. A reminder that I was still truly here. She picked up her tea with her other hand and took a sip. “Well, if the words do come to you, perhaps it would do you well to have somebody else listen to them.” Her voice was softer, kinder than usual. 

I gave a slight nod, a vaguely appreciative expression, something that was meant to be a beholden smile.

The Captain let go of my arm and retreated from the kitchen, sipping from her mug. 

“I look forward to the sandwich, still. May I look at your library?” Her voice had returned to its regular confident and modulated tone. A small mercy for which I was eternally grateful. 

“Of course, Captain.” I replied.

Tonight was shaping up to be a long one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kid Morgan: I think I will cause problems on purpose.  
> He was like the goose as a child, except unarmed (thankfully) and less genuinely spiteful and malicious. 
> 
> I want to give credit to the fantastic Arriaryu (you're the best!) who created the headcanon of Luccio's List of Banned Evocations in the Warden barracks, as well as Morgan being half the reason that that list exists... He was looking for trouble and if he could not find it he would create it. 
> 
> This chapter was hard as shit to do suggested listening for so this list isn't the best one, but I tried my best
> 
> The Confrontation Suggested Listening: 
> 
> You're Somebody Else (Flora Cash)
> 
> I Dreamed a Dream (This version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JN5pBzYMgl0 )
> 
> After the Storm (Mumford and sons)
> 
> I Fought in a War (Belle and Sebastian)
> 
> This Night (Black Lab)
> 
> Ship to Wreck (Florence and the Machine)
> 
> If Ever I Stray (Frank Turner)
> 
> Plain Sailing Weather (Frank Turner)
> 
> Get Better (Frank Turner)


	4. The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few of Morgan's best memories of Justin come back to him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out I'm a lying liarface. When I said chapter 2 was the gayest chapter, I was incorrect. This chapter is gonna be the gayest one. I hope you guys can allow me the indulgence of writing a chapter about memories.

The first time I met Justin DuMorne was in June of 1905, on my first trip to Archangel. I could remember the first time I saw him like it was only yesterday, I would never forget his first impression. He always liked it when I cooked for him. 

_“My name is Justin.” He smiled a wide, charming smile as he offered me his hand. I shook it, attempting to match his grin, although I can’t imagine mine was half as handsome as his._

_“Donald,” I murmured, compulsively brushing my short brown hair out of my face, despite it was hardly obscuring my vision in the first place. It was just a twitch, something to do with my hands when I was at a loss for anything else._

_The other boy must have been a year or two older than I, and he was devilishly handsome. He had hair as black as night, deep blue eyes, and cheekbones that could cut glass. He did not wear the same brown apprentice robes as I did, he was clad in black and grey and a little bit of dark blue. His attire was formal, and it suited his slender frame very well. He looked official, dignified, he was truly striking. He was one of the most beautiful people I had ever laid eyes on, his features almost statuesque in nature. If someone had told me he was a living sculpture, chiseled from the finest marble by the most talented artist, I probably would have believed them._

_He looked up at me - I stood a few inches taller than him even then. I wanted to look at his eyes but Anastasia had warned me harshly about Soulgazing. Although… I almost wanted to see his soul, I had a feeling that it would be just as gorgeous as the rest of him._

_I settled for focusing on his smile, instead of his eyes._

_Both of them were stunning sights._

_“You are Warden Luccio’s apprentice?” His voice was sweet, and he had a distinct English accent, and one of my first thoughts was he sounded rich._

_I nodded._

_He flashed me another bright, attractive smile. “I am Simon’s apprentice. It is good to meet you.”_

_It was my first visit to Archangel, the mesmerizing fortress that it was. I was in awe of the majesty of the place when Anastasia and I arrived, I thought nothing would strike me as much as it had. I had not been prepared for Justin DuMorne._

_“It is good to meet you too,” I murmured. I was a mere 16 years old, and I still spoke with a thick German accent and an apprehensive tone._

_His smile never falters. “Can I show you around?” My heart skipped a beat when he again offered me his hand._

_I took it. It was only the second time I had felt the jolt of another practitioner, and I noticed how cold his hand was. What is the saying, cold hands mean a warm heart? Something like that._

_About Justin DuMorne, that maxim could not have been more true. He was patient with me, he was kind to me, and I had never felt quite as important as I did when he was looking at me, when I had his undivided attention. He had this remarkable way of making me feel like I was the only thing that mattered to him, I was utterly taken with him the moment I laid eyes on him. My heart was his, and it would remain his for decades to come._

I dropped the first sandwich in the pan, my jaw clenched tightly enough to hurt.

_I was hesitant._

_Afraid, even._

_I was not worried about what I would see, I was absolutely sure that no matter what I saw within him, I would still love him. I was afraid of what he would see in me. I cannot know what another would see when gazing upon my Soul, and I worried that there would be something hidden. Something in the black depths of my heart that even I had neglected to realise. That would deter him from me. But, he wanted to truly know me, and I him._

_He took my hands in his, gently rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles._

_“It will be alright, Donald.” He smiled. Justin’s smile never failed to strike a certain sentimental chord within me. In all the years we knew each other, everytime he smiled at me I felt as though my stomach was full of butterflies._

_“Nothing I could see would change my mind about you,” he murmured, leaning closer to my ear as he spoke. He gave me a reassuring smile and pressed soft kisses to my hands._

_I took a deep breath, though I did not feel like I had taken in enough air. The nerves, perhaps._

_Justin looked up at me._

_I looked up at Justin._

_Right into his beautiful, impossibly wintry eyes. His icy blue eyes that made shivers run down my spine, made the air around us feel like it had dropped twenty degrees. His frigid, piercing eyes that froze my very blood in the best possible way. They were cold, but the way they looked at me was full of adoration. Bleak, yet loving._

_I stared right into his frosty eyes, and I swore for an instant I could see snow in them._

_Justin’s soul was just as glacial as his eyes._

_I witnessed memories, all bathed in a chill blue flash before my eyes._

_I saw the first time his power manifested. The air violently tears the doors in front of him open, granting him passage out of what seemed a mansion engulfed in flame. I saw the vague faces of people I did not recognize - his family, surely. They stared at him, some proud, some shocked, some confused. Vicious wind continued to whip up dirt and dust from the ground and settled finally around him in a perfect circle._

_Voices sounded in my mind, though they were muffled, distorted. As though they were submerged in water. Most of them I did not recognize but certain ones stood out. Simon Pietrovich, of course. That of another Warden who resided at Archangel._

_And… I heard my own._

_I saw the very first time that we met. Much of the memory was obscured but bits and pieces of the first day we passed together came to me. I watched him leading me down the halls of Simon’s compound, smiling and laughing and idly linking his arm through mine._

_I heard my voice speaking to him, whispering sweet things in his ear in the small hours of the morning, shouting and gasping and murmuring his name a thousand different ways._

_I witnessed the first time Justin was unfortunate enough to see a member of the Red Court without its flesh mask. The ill-defined, disgusting bat-like creature stared at him, as though appraising him. He was terrified and sickened. He was truly and viscerally repulsed. He felt like his skin was trying to crawl off his body. It left an impression on him. He would never forget the bone deep fear and repulsion he felt towards the Red Court, and it would serve as motivation for him later in his life. It would drive him to keep fighting._

_The next vision that came to me was Justin trapped in a nebulous nothingness. The misty landscape seemed to go on forever, and he was surrounded by - Was that snow? Or was I just remembering the snowfall I could have sworn I saw in the wintry blue of his eyes?_

_He was freezing. Ice crystals formed on his hair, his eyelashes, his coat - Which was black, and a sharp contrast to the pallor of his skin and the environment around him. His lips looked blue, and his arms were hugged tightly around his chest. Wind tore violently past him, ripping through the layers he wore and leaving him with a true and deep chill which would take days of blankets and tea and fireside resting to get rid of._

_I could feel his fear, his hopelessness. I felt how destitute he was, how lost, how alone. He thought that he would die out there, in the snowy nothingness. He thought he would never make it home, never see me again._

_When I was tossed out of Justin’s soul after what felt like ages, I felt nauseous, and it took me longer to remember where I was than when I had looked into my mentor’s soul. My chest felt tight and my breaths came in ragged gasps. Justin appeared to have the same issue, his chest heaved with his breathing, his cheeks graced with a little bit of pink that showed up very plainly against his normally pale complexion._

_I had to admire how beautiful he looked, flushed and out of breath and smiling ever so sweetly at me. My heart fluttered and I did not even realise I had moved until I was hugging him close against me._

_“I love you, Donald,” he murmured against my shoulder._

_Butterflies whirled in a fast and unsteady dance in my stomach. I was caught between feeling nauseous over our Soulgaze and feeling nauseous over my own nerves._

_I smiled, my cheeks hurt, I closed my eyes._

_“I love you too, Justin.”_

I flipped the sandwich with a little more force than was really necessary. I missed him more than I would care to admit.

_The first World War was my first real taste of the horrors this world has to offer. It would plague me for years after it ended, and for a time I truly thought I would never see anything worse. The day I finally returned home from it was one of the best of my life._

_I had never been so relieved to board a ferry in my life, I had never been so excited to go to London either. But Justin was waiting in London, and I hadn’t seen him since I left for that fucking war. I missed him dearly, and I had been nervous about writing anything sincere in my letters to him, lest they be read by somebody else. Hell, I had even gone so far as to tell my comrades that the letters I received from him were from my mother. Justin had been smart enough to not put anything that could have caused us trouble in his letters either, but even then, I was afraid that somebody would get suspicious if I was receiving letters only from one man who was ‘only a close friend’._

_Perhaps I was merely paranoid, but the goal of not being discovered was achieved. As far as I was aware, nobody had suspected the truth of our relationship._

_Almost as soon as I stepped off the ferry I heard him shout my name._

_“Donald!”_

_I wanted to kiss him, but for the moment we would both have to settle for a friendly handshake until we were in the privacy of his flat._

_I approached him casually, it took a huge amount of restraint to not run to him._

_“It is good to have you home my friend,” he smiled up at me, that big, exquisite smile. I shook his hand._

_“It is good to be home,” I returned the smile, but of course it was still not as striking as his._

_“Shall we be off?” He asked in a polite tone._

_I did not trust my voice to be as calculated as his, so I only nodded my agreement. Justin walked beside me at a respectable distance, and to be safe I carried my rucksack in between us._

_The trip to Justin’s flat took a little under thirty minutes, but it felt like an eternity. As soon as the door closed behind us I dropped my back and hugged him tightly. I felt so relieved to be back home, to be close to him again. The peaceful atmosphere of his apartment was refreshing, and the relative quiet of his street was a stark and welcome change from the nearly constant fire I had endured during the war._

_I felt out of place, standing in the middle of a tidy living room surrounded not by equally battered comrades covered in dirt, sweat and blood, but by a clean sofa and a light blue wallpaper with little yellow flowers on it. After years spent around hardened soldiers and heavy duty weapons, everything around me looked fragile. Justin looked so fragile._

_All I could think was how much I wanted to protect him. He was one small piece of perfection in a world full of tragedy and pain and horror. He was a lighthouse, one minute beacon of light in a raging storm._

_Beneath my hands, he was warm, he was real, he was here. He would be integral in keeping me tethered to my sanity in the years following the Great War. I walked away from that with naught but a couple quite ugly and jagged scars, physically. But mentally, I did not realise how shaken I was until I woke up on the floor and the first thing I noticed was the feeling of the earth trembling under me._

_The next thing I became aware of was Justin kneeling in front of me, his hands on my arms, his lips were moving. He was speaking, but I could not hear him. All I could hear was the explosion of ammunition, the shout of my comrades, the pounding of my own heart._

_When his voice finally broke through the haze, it sounded to me like the sweetest music I had ever heard. When he hugged me, I felt myself start to cry. I had spent the entire war keeping tears from falling, but how I was helpless to stop them._

I did not realise I was glaring at the sandwiches for nearly a full minute. I sighed as I laid the second one in the pan.

_The first time Justin was injured while we were on an assignment together was one of the most frightening days of my life._

_We were in Russia, fortunately, else I fear that day may have gone very differently. It did not take us long to get from Moscow to Archangel, the Way, luckily, was short. We were lucky. It haunted me for a time after, I wondered if Justin would have survived, had it taken longer._

_He was so pale, so horribly pale, and terrifically cold. He looked so delicate that I almost feared his skin would shatter if I touched him._

_By the time we finally reached Archangel, my fatigues were stained with his blood. His eyes, half lidded, were pale and lifeless. He felt so frail, so extremely weak._

_I could hardly breathe, my chest was painfully tight. I nearly collapsed as soon as Simon took him from my arms._

_“Breathe Donald,” Grace - a fellow Warden - murmured to me, she grabbed me by the shoulders. Either to keep me from running after the swarm of healers and Simon that had carried Justin off, or to keep me steady and off the floor, I could not quite tell which she was worried about._

_I am unsure how long it was until I was allowed to see him, and whether it was for his sake or mine that they had me wait for so long._

_Justin laid in a bed, he had already managed to get himself tangled up in the blankets he had - He was a man who was well and truly incapable of being still, evidently, even when he was injured. Bandages covered his torso, blood already faintly stained them in places._

_But his eyes were open._

_He was awake._

_He was_ **_alive._ **

_And at the time, nothing else mattered. The only thing I could bring myself to care about was the fact that Justin DuMorne was still breathing._

I flipped the sandwich. I tried to ignore the tears stinging the corners of my eyes. It bothered me that I did want to talk about what was on my mind, but I only cared to tell any of it to a man who was no longer around to hear me. 

He was gone.

_Music played, though I barely registered it’s presence. I was entirely focused on the man in front of me, he had my undivided attention. The way he danced, the delightful way his suit fit him - Perfectly. He was enchanting. In the smoke filled, dimly light room he looked ethereal._

_He took my hand, and I glimpsed a distasteful look from a woman watching us from the bar. I could not be bothered with her opinion, she was just as guilty of being in a speakeasy as we were. Besides, I was dancing with the most beautiful man alive, and she was not. My night was clearly going better._

_His jacket flew out behind him as he twirled under my arm and it gave me a very brief glimpse of the delightful way his waistcoat hugged his form. He looked stunning, entrancing. Even if I had wanted to I sincerely doubt I would have been able to look away._

_He spun right into my arms, and everything around us faded away. He was the only thing I cared to think about._

_I lost track of time as we moved together, dancing in perfect synergy. The music and smoke and his intoxicating presence clouded my mind, and I doubt I would have been able to think clearly even if I wanted to. We spun and twirled and stepped together until Justin tugged on my sleeve and asked for a drink. It was difficult to hear him over the music._

_We moved to the side of the smoke shrouded room where the bar was set. He leaned against the bar, arching his back a little, grinning ever so sweetly at me. At the time I was half sure that he was trying to get me to look at his ass, and I would be a liar if I were to say that it did not work._

_He cast a mischievous smile back at me and my knees nearly buckled. He seemed to be perfectly aware of the effect he had on me._

_He also seemed to no longer care for his drink._

_“Would you care to take a walk, darling?” Justin leaned up and whispered his proposition against my ear._

_My breath caught in my throat, and I found myself utterly unable to speak as he took my hand and pulled me gently out of the dimly light speakeasy into the quiet street._

I tossed the sandwich unceremoniously on a plate. I sighed. I was not quite ready to go back out there and face Anastasia. Not quite yet. I felt no hunger, but I did feel the familiar urge to drown my sorrows in a bottle. 

Perhaps once the Captain left. I would settle down with whiskey and Justin’s journal and try to get through at least part of it. I was unsure how much I would be able to bear, or how much I would manage to read before I drank myself incoherent. But I felt that I must at least try.

_After Kemmler's reign of terror had finally been put to an end, I had nightmares._

_Of course, I had had nightmares before Kemmler as well, but they became much worse after the fight._

_I do not remember what exactly I dreamed of, but it was surely something horrific. Something awful enough to rouse me from my rest and send me upright in a cold sweat, ragged breaths tearing from my chest though I did not feel as though I was breathing at all._

_I did not realise that I was the one screaming until I heard another voice. It spoke my name. A hand on my arm accompanied it. It took me another several seconds to stop screaming, even after I realised that it was me._

_“Donald!” Justin’s voice grounded me, kept me from slipping deeper into my terror. “Donald breathe, it is alright!” He sounded frantic, and I felt his hand settle on my chest._

_Was I not breathing?_

_I could not tell._

_“Donald please, it is okay! You are safe,” he pleaded. His face appeared in front of mine, his hands on my cheeks, fear and worry and desperation in his eyes._

_I realised where I was._

_I remembered who I was with._

_Slowly, very slowly, my breathing evened out. I tried my best to take deep breaths but I felt as though I was starved for air, like I could not get enough in._

_A moment after I started hyperventilating I began to feel lightheaded. I felt Justin’s hands on my back and shoulder, gently pressing me down, encouraging me gently to lay back against the pillows. I did so shakily. I felt as though I were moving a hundred miles per hour, though I lay still in bed._

_My chest hurt. My head was spinning. My heart was hammering._

_Justin’s hands, now on my chest and my forehead, kept me present. Held onto me like an anchor. Steady and sure._

_It took far too long for me to calm down enough for words. When I did, the first breathless thing I gasped was his name._

_“Justin.”_

_“I am here, darling. Fear not, I am here.” His voice made all of my fear and pain melt away. I wrapped my arms tightly around him. His presence was warm, comforting._

_He was_ **_real._ **

_And even then, even in so much pain, so afraid I was barely coherent, I could hardly believe that such a kind and perfect man had chosen me._

At long last I mustered the courage and to return to the living room. Anastasia waited patiently on the couch, one leg crossed over the other. Even though I had known her for a great many years, and seen her in various states of alertness, it was still a little bit odd to see her relaxed. She leaned comfortably into the soft cushions of the sofa, mug clasped in her hands. For once her posture was not rigid and her expression was not severe, she looked like a woman trying to wind down before going to bed, having a cup of tea to lull herself closer to sleep. 

It was nice to see her relaxed, she so rarely got the chance to nowadays. 

She looked up at me as I entered the room. The look on her face was not the stern, measured look she usually wore. Instead she looked exhausted, worried, _vulnerable._ It was rare that the Captain of the Wardens ever appeared vulnerable, and I knew she typically disliked appearing as such very much. 

“Ah, Donald.” She gave me a weary smile as she spoke, her tiredness evident in her eyes. “I was beginning to wonder what was taking so long.” 

I attempted to return the expression as I set our plates down on the coffee table, but I could not quite find it in myself to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have at least one more memory that I'm gonna be putting in a later chapter, but I'm not telling anybody what it is yet. 
> 
> The Past Suggested Listening:
> 
> Wouldn’t it be nice (Beach Boys)
> 
> 2 Heads (Coleman Hell)
> 
> Dancing In The Moonlight (Johnny Lectro remix)
> 
> Shape of You (Ed Sheeran)
> 
> Ain’t No Mountain High Enough (Marvin Gaye)
> 
> Blue Eyes Like the Devil’s Water (McCafferty)
> 
> Electric Love (Børns)
> 
> Okay (Elizabeth Gillies)
> 
> Eyes Blue like the Atlantic (Sista_Prod)
> 
> To Be With You (The Honey Trees)


	5. The Journal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan attempts to read Justin's old journal...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing from Justin's perspective is fun and it makes me sad that he's dead

According to the Captain of the Wardens, I make good grilled cheese sandwiches. My own food sat, much like my tea, neglected on the coffee table. I had not eaten since that morning, but I did not feel hungry in the least. The sandwich was probably cold by this point anyways, though I could not bring myself to care.

I was unsure how long she intended to stay that night, I was unsure if I wanted her to leave as well. Of course I was eager to dive into the little leather book, but… I did not wish to be alone. As childish and foolish as that made me feel. Solitude was daunting, and I was a little afraid of it. 

“Donald,” she broke the silence which felt much longer than it truly was, and gave me a firm look. “I will not leave until you have eaten something as well.” Her gaze briefly flicked between me and my disregarded sandwich. If I wished to take care of her, I would have to let her take care of me. 

I sighed and reluctantly picked up the plate. 

The sandwich looked pathetic.

Anastasia continued to speak while I managed to choke down my food, which was utterly tasteless to me. Since DuMorne died, such strange things had happened. I could hardly sleep, food had very little taste, colour did not look as bright, the world was simply not as radiant. 

I supposed I was fortunate that the food did not taste bad, just… totally bland. 

“I was speaking with Simon earlier,” the Captain went on. “And we thought it may do you good to spend time back at Archangel.”

I frowned as I swallowed a disappointing bite of sandwich. “He has already offered that to me.” My words came out a little more harshly than I intended, and I felt immediate guilt. 

_They are just trying to help._

“I am aware of that.” Anastasia continued, giving me a severe frown. “But we thought perhaps it would help if you heard it from both of us.” Her expression was not angry per say, but displeased, concerned, and very exhausted. 

A blind man could have seen how poor a decision arguing with her would have been, so I did not. I simply took another bite of my horribly bland sandwich and listened. 

“I understand it may be difficult to consider leaving Chicago after all that has happened, but it may be what is best for you.” She set her now empty mug on the table and looked at me as she spoke. “Time away to relax and recover will be good for you. I cannot force you to go, but… Please consider it.”

I took another bite of my food. 

“Donald. Will you please at least think about taking a vacation?” 

There was no way I could have said no. 

I swallowed, exhaled, nodded. “I promise I will at least give thought to it.” Once I found the truth, and got proper justice for DuMorne, then I would take a brief vacation. But until then I would not rest. I would not be able to rest, even if I wished to.

She seemed satisfied, or at least, satisfied enough. Anastasia rose from her seat. 

“I suppose that will have to do for now. But I will be by again very soon to check on you. And Simon has decided to stay in Chicago for another day or two.” The Captain looked me in the eyes. Hers were deep brown and quite beautiful, full of empathy and worry and kindness and exhaustion. I was sure mine were much less lovely. Grey and dull and sad. “Please go to him if you need anything.”

I rose, setting my plate back down. “I will.” That is a promise I would keep. Perhaps if there was anything in the journal I was unsure about, Simon would be willing to keep my secret. It was a calculated risk that I may have to take. Simon may know something I did not, and I was very hopeful that he would be willing to assist me, should the need arise, with the utmost discretion. 

I followed Anastasia to the door. She shrugged her jacket on, picked up her umbrella. 

“I expect you to keep that promise.” She gave me a look. Almost the kind she gives the new recruits when they do something foolish and then swear up and down to never do it again. 

“I will. If I need anything, I will seek Simon out.”

She studied my face for a few moments before giving me a sharp nod. “Very good.” As she opened the door and turned to leave she bade me farewell. “I will return soon,” she said, stepping out into the rain beneath her dark red umbrella. She descended the porch steps and I closed the door behind her after calling a half hearted goodbye into the night. 

I waited ten minutes before I went to collect the journal and photograph from my truck.

With the two little items tucked into my coat, I hurried back inside, shuddering as I felt a few raindrops hit the back of my neck. The door closed and locked behind me, I hung my coat up and laid both frail things out on the coffee table. 

I hesitated when I went to pick up the journal, and instead retrieved a bottle of whiskey and a small glass. I had a feeling I would be needing it. This night was sure to be a long and painful one, and I did not anticipate sleep anytime soon. I would not be able to rest until I had at least started going through my discovery.

Finally, after two glasses of whiskey, I found the courage to actually pick the thing up and open it. 

The first page, though smoke damaged, was a sight I had seen a thousand times or more. Justin’s small, neat, precise handwriting scrawled across the paper. No diagrams or added notes, just his writing. It looked like a page out of any of his notebooks, nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first glance. 

It hurt to look at. 

I cursed under my breath and began to read.

_January 18, 1963_

_I find myself very out of it today, and feeling very poorly. Nothing seems worthwhile except this and I cannot explain why._

_Perhaps the informant knows. Perhaps I will ask it._

_It has been speaking to me. Telling me things. Answering questions. I did not expect it to be such a conversationalist, given it is a skull. But it is not an unwelcome surprise. It seems quite knowledgeable. I still am unsure what exactly drew me to it in the first place, but… I am pleased that I kept it._

_I intend to study it. It is intriguing, and it may be of use to the Council._

_I cannot tell Simon or Donald. I am afraid they would not understand, that they would think me mad. Talking to a skull does sound… well.. Mad. Perhaps I shall bring it to them once I know more about it. I think they would find it interesting, if I could only show them that it has value._

_I am unsure why the prospect of showing it to anyone unnerves me so._

_It is late. I surely will feel better in the morning. I hope I can sleep tonight._

1963 was shortly after we had finally bested Kemmler, finally put the beast down for good. I was at Archangel, then. Simon had dragged me kicking and screaming away from my duties as a Warden for a few years. I had refused to acknowledge that I needed a break, or that I had any sort of issue at all. At the time I despised him for it. I was bitter, cold, and an utter wreck. Had he and Anastasia not stepped in, I doubt I would be alive. Whether I drank myself to death or did something foolish and got myself killed, I am almost positive that they saved my life.

The skull was… Odd. Justin had never mentioned such a thing to me, especially one that spoke to him. As far as I was aware he had not mentioned it to Simon either. If he had, I am almost sure Pietrovich would have told me. If Justin had mentioned something that concerning and potentially dangerous, there was absolutely no way that Simon would have stood by and not intervened.

I refilled my glass and took a sip. I knew it was only going to go downhill. 

I turned the page. The handwriting was still Justin’s easily recognizable tight and concise letters. For that I was grateful.

_February 6, 1963_

_Simon asked me to come back to Archangel full-time until Donald is better._

_I am going to go, of course. Of course I am going to go. I must help take care of him. He is not doing well. I am worried for him._

_Gods, he is sick._

_I am going to leave the skull here. It could be dangerous to bring it with me. What if someone were to hear it speak to me? Or me to it? What if someone were to ask what it was? Where I got it? I could certainly not explain it. I cannot afford to lose it, I must study it._

_But right now Donald is more important. I must help take care of him. I must help him get better._

_Perhaps this will give me clarity, as well, perhaps returning to Archangel will help me relax a little. I have not been sleeping well lately, even worse than usual. I cannot go to sleep, I cannot stay asleep, I have dreams. It has been years since I had bad dreams. They are not like the last ones, these feel much more… Invasive. I am not sure how else to describe it._

_I hope going back to Archangel and being around Simon and Donald will make them go away. I leave tomorrow._

I was on my fifth glass. 

He was worried for me. Of course he was, I was a fucking disaster. I hurt him so much. 

I made it to my sixth glass easily. 

He would hate to see me drink like this, but there was absolutely no way I would be able to get through this sober. If he was still here, I would go to him instead of drowning my sorrows in a bottle.

But he wasn’t. He’d been taken from me. From the Council. His beautiful life, snuffed out by a foolish malevolent _child._

I knew, in my heart, that I could not have saved him. But I still felt immeasurable guilt. Even if I had not been able to stop the boy from burning his home, perhaps I would have been able to get him out if I had been there. 

But I was not. 

I refilled my glass and turned the page.

_April 29, 1963_

_Donald is a little better in the past couple of weeks. I do not know if he has been eating enough though. And he complained that it feels like there are a thousand spiders beneath his skin, I think it may be a symptom of withdrawal, but I am unsure. I plan to search for a spell to make it stop tomorrow. I am worried for him._

_Simon is not here right now. He has been gone for four days and will be away for twenty more._

_My dreams have not gone away, which is exceptionally irritating, but I suppose I should take solace in the fact that they have not gotten worse, or more frequent. They are less vivid, they wake me in the night less when I sleep beside Donald. His presence is a comfort._

_I will not plague him with my own odd dreams, not until he is better._

_Thoughts of the skull still weigh on me. Perhaps I will ask what it is when I get home._

_Thoughts of the skull still weigh on me. Perhaps I will ask what it is when I get home. I am unsure if I will tell Donald about it, I fear it would just worry him._

_Perhaps while I reside at Archangel I will attempt to research a name that the skull mentioned; Elias Martense. I do not recognize it, but I feel it may be worth looking into._

Elias Martense? I had not heard the name before, and there was that skull again… Perhaps Simon would know something about it, or this Martense man. 

As unlikely as I found it, I decided he may have mentioned it to Simon at some point. Perhaps Pietrovich would have kept it from me. When this journal was begun, I was certainly not in a good place, and I doubt I would have reacted well to the information. 

I made a mental note to ask him about this, maybe even show him the journal itself if he was not angry with me. 

Granted, that mental note would probably not stick around in my head for long, because I was on my eighth glass of whiskey. But it could. 

The chances were small, though. 

I turned the page, and I was unsure if it was the alcohol that was obscuring my vision, or if the penmanship was truly a little bit smaller, a little bit more frantic. I would have to look at it again the next day, when I could think somewhat clearer, and see infinitely better. 

I pushed my spectacles up on my nose and took a long drink, draining my glass before again refilling it.

_September 13th, 1963_

_Donald has made progress in recent months, and I am very pleased to see him doing better. He seems less angry with us all now, which is quite an improvement. At the beginning of all this he was so out of it and full of rage that he simply would not even speak to Simon. I know that bothered him. I am pleased for both of them that Donald is doing better, and that he is no longer angry that we are trying to help him. I am slightly worried that he will overthink everything though and put himself right back at the start._

_Donald has always been so horrible for that. One moment he is fine and the next he has gotten into his own head and convinced himself of all sorts of ridiculous things. I will have to keep an eye on him, to be sure he doesn’t do that. It’s easier to remedy if his more destructive trains of thought are caught early._

_I often find my thoughts wandering back to the skull now._

_The things it told me._

_Elias Martense._

_I have found nothing in Archangel’s libraries mentioning that name. It seems as though this man simply did not exist in the eyes of the Council. Perhaps I will venture to Edinburgh to see if there is mention of him there, once I am no longer occupied here._

_As curious as I am about the skull and this Martense man, Donald’s health is most certainly more important. I will remain at Archangel and at his side until I am absolutely sure of his recovery._

_Fortunately he seems to be on the right path now. His recovery is thus far going well. Since last I wrote I have been keeping a closer eye on his eating habits, and I have been much more careful about being sure he is eating enough._

_Beyond that, I fear there is not much else to say now. I must find more information about the skull and Elias Martense. I expect the skull knows more about him, and I shall speak to it when I return home._

A myriad of feelings I was not prepared for slammed into me like a ton of bricks. 

The journal fell out of my hands, due to both the drunkenness, and the sorrow. I finished off my eleventh glass. What the hell was this skull he kept mentioning? Where did it come from? I was far too out of it to come up with any half coherent theories about the origins of the thing. 

Perhaps it was not a good idea, but I poured myself another glass. My head felt horribly foggy, and my vision was hazy and out of focus. Tears stung my eyes, my chest was tight and painful. I felt like I could not properly breathe, and perhaps continuing to drink was not the proper solution, but it was the one I chose. 

I made myself rise, though I staggered considerably and nearly fell over. My head was swimming and I could hardly see to walk. Making it to my bedroom was truly a feat, and ascending the stairs took a lot of effort, but eventually I made it. I tripped several times along the way, though fortunately I managed to avoid hitting my head on anything. As I stumbled into my room, absentmindedly pushing my door closed - or at least mostly closed - and staggered over towards my bed, I tripped yet again. Though this time I was lucky enough to fall onto my nice, comfortable bed. 

It was then, once I had eventually had the good sense to kick my shoes off, tug the elastic out of my hair, and wriggle out of my shirt somehow, that the tears I had been trying to ignore for the past couple hours finally began to fall. My shoulders shook and I felt ill. My breath came in choked, ragged gasps in turn with sobs that ripped from my chest and left my throat raw.

My actions felt almost involuntary as I curled into myself and lazily tugged the covers up over me. I more felt myself doing them rather than actually made the choice to do them. 

The blankets were crooked, my hair was a mess and strands had fallen to rest over my face, but I did not particularly care. I felt destitute, alone, hopeless. I wanted nothing more than Justin’s company. His warm body next to mine, his arms wrapped around my shoulders, his head resting on my shoulder… I missed it. I missed him. I would have given almost anything to have him back. 

He would have been quite unhappy with me, in my current state though. Perhaps it was best that he was not currently at my side. I could imagine the look on his face, displeased, weary, disappointed.

My ability to form coherent thoughts was short lived once I had laid down, fortunately. Thanks to both excessive alcohol and pure exhaustion. Soon enough I was lost in a sea of fragmented memories of Justin, rage at Dresden, dulled fortunately by the liquor, and sorrow of unfathomable depths that I was far too out of it to deal with. 

I let tears, unwelcome as they were, fall freely. Though I would not have been able to stop them if I tried. I heard my own voice scream a couple of times, muffled by a pile of pillows and blankets. I heard myself sob, though every sound I made sounded far away, like a distant echo. I felt my cries in my chest, painful and raw. My voice did not sound like my own.

I was fortunate enough to pass out not long after I had burrowed into my bed. I slept deeply and fitfully, thanks to unhappy and disquieting dreams which unfortunately did not have the courtesy to awaken me from my slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this with troubled birds in mind. Specifically 'The risk I took was calculated, but man am I bad at math.' 
> 
> The Trial Suggested Listening: 
> 
> Albatross (Big Wreck)
> 
> I will follow you into the dark (Deathcab for Cutie)
> 
> Ocean Eyes (Billie Eilish)
> 
> Waves (Dotan)
> 
> Every Feeling (Ezra Furman)


	6. The Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan's morning is about as good as could be expected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There's some graphic description of body horror (specifically involving skin/joints) and mention of stuff going into eyes. If that bothers you, you can skip over the part in italics and you'll be fine

I slept very fitfully that night. The only reason sleep came to me at all was because I had drank enough to make my nerves quiet down. My dreams did me no favours either. 

_The Necromancer shouted and cursed and howled as the Wardens advanced. His wild screams would have been just about as unsettling, even if he was not also slinging vicious spells at us. It was a daunting task, fighting Heinrich Kemmler. But it was one that we had to do._

_He was a monster. A beast. The worst kind of man. He was a man who had put us all through Hell a thousand times over, committed countless atrocities that he had yet to properly answer for, and continuously disregarded and broken the Laws of Magic. He had time and again barred his Soul for us all to see, and it was the darkest and most twisted pit imaginable._

_Heinrich Kemmler was beyond hope. He was the truest abomination alive._

_Though, on that fateful night, we hoped to remedy that._

_Kemmler would fall. We would make sure of it, even if we all had to go down with him to pull it off. The Council, the entire greater magical world as a whole, would suffer him no longer._

_Everything happened so fast, I could barely keep track. I felt a myriad of blows I had not seen coming nor been prepared for hit me. Pain exploded in my chest, my head, my arms._

_As I looked around everything was bathed in a sinister, horrific red._

_I could not see well enough to even hope to dodge the oncoming spells. I felt something collide with my chest and all of a sudden I could no longer move my arms or legs._

_Panic washed over me, I lost the ability to breathe, my vision started to blacken around the edges._

_I looked over my shoulder as I hit the ground, knocked down by some unseen force that I had not been braced well enough to take. There was a loud crash, screams, I watched Justin take a hit right in his chest and fly back through the stone wall, and for a horrible moment I thought he was dead._

_That was of course the worst thing that could ever possibly happen._

_I did not realize how much power I was gathering until I had released it. There was an explosion of green so bright that I could not see, my eyes burned, and then everything faded to black._

_When my vision returned, I was no longer in the dim horrible room with a howling Necromancer and ten other Wardens covered in blood and full of broken bones._

_I stood in a seemingly empty field. It was not the right one, but it was close enough._

_It got the message across._

_The vastness. The emptiness of it._

_I stood there by myself, and I watched the monster stalk closer to me. I still could not move my limbs, and I felt like I was suffocating._

_It moved so agonizingly slowly, towards me, circling me. All the while staring at me with it’s burning red eyes. It growled, the sound guttural and rumbling. The thing sounded like it had something stuck in it’s throat, and I wondered if it even needed to breathe._

_It stared at me, squirming and slinking in a disgusting fashion ever closer to me._

_The thing’s skin began to slowly fall away as it writhed, falling away behind it in pieces. Almost like a snake, except the swathes fell and landed with a wet, disgusting slop. Blood dripped from the little fleshy piles, pooling in the grass. Everything the creature’s blood touched died, and I wondered if it would do the same to me._

_It seemed I would find out quite quickly._

_The beast lurched towards me, pitching violently and grasping at me with it’s claw-like fingers._

_Bloody, wretched claws came towards my eyes, and still I could not move. It was not for lack of trying, though it seemed the more effort I put into trying to run, even just to throw myself aside, I would only become more rigid. My muscles only stiffened further, holding my steadfast and right in the way of the horrible creature’s vicious claws._

_As my own traitorous limbs held me prisoner there, I heard the sound of a voice behind me. One I hardly recognized, it had been so long since I’d last heard it._

_Justin’s voice begged for me to help him._

_In life of course, he never would have begged for anything. That was the thing that made me conscious of this being a dream._

_It was still horrifying, of course, to watch the terrible monster’s disproportionate and distorted hand descend towards my eyes._

I awoke with a horrible start, shooting up into a sitting position before my eyes were even open, clutching the sheets in a white knuckled grasp. My breath came in ragged gasps, my head swam, and it took me nearly half a minute to truly realise where I was. Not Kemmler’s wretched lair, not a vast empty field of any kind, but home in my bed. 

With a horrible headache. 

At 4:03 am. 

And there was surely no hope of getting back to sleep.

I groaned and dropped my head into my hands. My hair was a mess, my skin was covered in a cold sweat, my muscles felt the need to occasionally twitch. Just to remind me that I felt horrible, I suppose. 

Then the nausea set in, and I felt even worse. 

As I stumbled towards the bathroom, I managed to not trip over my own feet like I had so many times last night. Granted, my memories of last night were somewhat hazy. I almost regretted drinking, for I would certainly have to re-read what little of Justin’s journal I had made it through. That was not something I particularly looked forward to. It had been painful drunk, I could only imagine it would be more painful sober, when I would be able to properly overthink everything.

The next twenty or so minutes were spent coughing and retching in front of the toilet, plagued by the kind of nausea and headache and general discomfort that comes with a bad hangover. Up to then I had managed to avoid bad hangovers for a good long while, but that morning I was not so lucky. 

At that point I had no choice but to recognize that I would never get back to sleep, despite the fact that I felt like utter death and I was horribly exhausted. And a shower and coffee seemed like a better option than sitting on the bathroom floor feeling sorry for myself. 

Once I was sure I was done being sick, I pushed myself up off the floor. It took another couple of minutes of just standing and holding the sink with a vice grip for the world to stop spinning. My legs were hardly under me, but quite frankly I have had far worse and kept going, so a little bit of disorientation and nausea was certainly not enough to keep me on the floor. 

Fortunately, my legs were functional enough to stay beneath me while I showered. I tried to make it quick, I was not particularly in the mood to stand in cold water for any substantial length of time. At least, as unpleasant as it was, it very quickly woke me up. 

The cold water cascading over my shoulders was comforting in a strange, sort of underhanded way. It was a familiar sensation, one that was normally associated with being safe. Whether that meant I was in my own home, a safehouse, a hotel… Though at hotels I generally got the luxury of a hot shower. Now though, I did not feel particularly safe, or at ease in the least. 

My head began to clear a little and my headache dulled from agonizing to just irritating, which was nice of it. But I still took aspirin after I had dried and dressed myself. I decided to fight with my hair after coffee, once it had time to dry, and I was significantly less groggy. 

As I passed through my house to the kitchen I murmured a spell to light the various candles and oil lamps that I used to light my home, as opposed to electric lights. Magic and any technology made after the second World War do not tend to get along very well, so I try to avoid it as much as possible. It only really became especially inconvenient during temperature extremes. Cold showers in the middle of January in Illinois are not my idea of a good time. 

Justin had always hated the cold, and he always seemed to get cold very easily. In the depths of winter he would practically glue himself to my side to stay warm. He had gotten better about it over the years, but winter had always unnerved him. And I knew why that was, or, well, I knew the basic outline of why that was. He did not tell me many details, nor did he frequently talk about it. 

A great many years ago, during the first World War, Justin had been sent to investigate some strange report I never got the chance to read from Russia. He was already there at Archangel, avoiding the draft, so it was convenient to send him. 

From what I know, nobody expected it to be anything substantial. Everyone involved seemed to assume it was either a false report, or nothing serious. And as foolish as it was, he was sent without backup. 

I have always resented that fact. Regardless of whether it was truly a waste of time or not, he should never have been sent alone. He was still young, fairly inexperienced at the time, and being there by himself very nearly meant his death. I theorized at the time that they put so much faith in him because Simon trained him, and surely someone as skilled and intelligent as Simon would only produce equally skilled and intelligent apprentices. Though of course, a great deal of Simon’s advantages came from his experience. Which Justin had very little of. 

With what little information Justin divulged to me about the incident, it took place either in, or very close to the part of the Ural Mountains now called Dyatlov Pass. Really, they should have had a goddamn clue that it was not a false report, given the mountain he was sent to is called “Dead Mountain.” Hindsight is twenty-twenty, I suppose. Granted, it did no good now. 

Whenever he tried to describe the experience to me, he always said that despite having no other people there with him, he knew for a fact that he was not alone out there. Which is not an uncommon feeling, to be fair. Plenty of people say that when they are seemingly by themselves, they have a sense of not being truly alone, or being watched. Sometimes it is only paranoia, sometimes they really are in the company of something unseen. 

Justin was never a very paranoid man, especially when he was younger. So when he claimed things that were so out of the ordinary for him, I was typically inclined to believe him. 

Most of my knowledge of what happened to him there is quite fragmented, and I am missing much of the information about… The incident itself. His rescue and the state of him after he was found however I know much about. Simon had the courtesy to fill me in once I finally returned home from the damned war.

I spent a good long while cursing myself for being away when all of it had happened. I did not have a choice about going to war. It was simply thrust upon me. But still I felt guilty for not being present when Justin needed me. The whole ordeal weighed on him much more than he would admit to, I could see it, Simon could too. 

Pietrovich told me that they had found him half dead in the snow, skin slightly discoloured in a very strange way, bruises in strange places that did not seem to coincide with his two cracked ribs and broken leg and arm. Ice crystals formed on his skin, his hair brittle, his eyes colourless and half lidded. It was a miracle he survived, and for nearly a month after he was rescued Simon was concerned that he would not. That he would have had to choose between sending me a letter in the trenches, or waiting for gods know how long until I got to come home. Which, fortunately, I did. 

It had taken serious effort on Simon’s part to convince me to not march out to the mountain myself and start a crusade against whatever had come after Justin. Though, it was fortunate that I did not do that, else I would more than likely be dead. 

I still do not know exactly what was out there with him during those frigid, horrible days. All Justin ever told me about it was that he never got a clear look at it, but he could feel it’s presence settled heavily on his shoulders. And that he knew it meant him harm. I have often wondered what it was, why it never showed itself to him if it intended to kill him anyway. Why it left him alive long enough for him to be rescued.

Justin often said that some things are just meant to be, I suppose it just was not his time then. Evidently that was much more recent. 

It felt like ages before my coffee was finally ready, and thanks to my distraction I nearly forgot my mug on the counter after pouring it.

I sighed as I left the kitchen again after returning for my coffee. The painkillers were finally beginning to take action and my headache had begun to fade to a very dull and easily ignorable pain. 

The journal I had left on the floor last night still laid there where I had dropped it, open to a page I had not gotten to read before I had to stop. I picked the little leather book up and set it, still open, on the coffee table. 

I stared at it as I sipped my coffee, trying to decide if reading more would be a decent idea. There were things I had to do today. I intended, much as I did not particularly want to, to go see Simon, ask him about what little I remembered from what I had managed to read last night. A… Skull that spoke, though that did seem like something out of a strange and unpleasant dream. A name.. Elijah? Ellen? Emery? 

I sighed. 

It would seem if I intended to make any proper inquiries, I would have to go back through at least the few entries I looked at the evening before.

Taking another long sip of coffee, I picked up the book and took a mere cursory glance at the page it was open to, before flipping back to the first one. The only thing that I noticed that particularly stood out to me was ‘Kemmler’. If I remembered correctly, that was not the first time he was mentioned, but my recollection of the first mention of his name was quite hazy, and possibly wrong. I wondered for a moment exactly how much our brush with Kemmler affected Justin.

It had affected him, of course. It hit us all much harder than any of us wanted to admit. But… Justin had always had a gift for better concealing his feelings, he was far better at it than I was. And with how out of it I was for so long after Kemmler… It was not impossible that it had hurt him much more than I realised, and he had simply not decided it would be fitting to tell me. Given how much of a sorry mess I was, I supposed that Justin keeping such things from me was not beyond reason.

Three cups of coffee and two fifteen minute breaks later, and I had made it back through the entries I had read last night. I even managed to read it all without breaking down crying again. Truly that was a miracle. 

The familiar urge to pour myself a stiff drink or light a cigarette nagged at me, but I could certainly not afford to get plastered. Not yet, at least. 

Perhaps tonight, once my business had been conducted. I would not be able to actually do anything useful if I was drunk, and… Simon would be quite unhappy about it. He had worked very hard to pry my hands from a bottle decades ago. It would be insulting if I went to see him drunk. Not to mention just generally very rude and disrespectful.

Though having a drink tonight would more than likely mean yet another horrific headache tomorrow morning. Which, after the one that I woke up with this morning, seemed like it would not be worth the trouble.

I closed the little book again and set it on my coffee table, my hand lingering on it for a moment. 

Perhaps I was just too paranoid, but it occurred to me that I should not leave something so valuable and utterly irreplaceable out in the open. My coffee mug was quickly forgotten beside my teacup, still full, from last night as I took the journal up again and went to stow it in a more secure spot.

Said secure spot turned out to be the rafters in my attic. There were certainly worse places. Probably better ones as well, but I did not particularly care to look for them. I did not want to spend too long looking for a better place, I intended to get to Simon quickly and get my questions answered in much the same fashion.

Once I had placed the thing in it’s spot, I paced around the attic for nearly fifteen minutes trying to decide if I should bring it with me to see Simon.

On one hand, it would certainly prove useful. We could go over it together, look through for anything that would give us real clues about… What Justin had been up to the past few years, why he would even adopt that child in the first place, anything that may help me figure out exactly what was going on. It may be beneficial for Simon to be able to see the text itself, maybe he would be able to spot some sort of irregularity in it that I had missed. 

However, he may also be displeased with me for digging around more after the trial. Or perhaps seeing Justin’s journal would prove too much for him to handle too. Perhaps it would only serve to hurt him further. Simon had practically adopted Justin, he had been a father to him, and Justin’s death had wrecked him. Perhaps this would anger him, and if it did would he insist on keeping the journal? Would he insist on keeping it anyway, to deter me from trying to investigate further? 

I could not risk losing it so soon after getting my hands on it.

I elected to leave it where it sat in the rafters of my attic, safe and certain to be there when I returned. 

As I hurried back downstairs and threw my boots on, I started to try to figure out what to say to Simon. What would be least likely to be extraordinarily upsetting to him, what would be least likely to anger or hurt him, what would be the least suspicious thing I could possibly say. Of course anything I could say would sound extremely suspect, and Simon was absolutely no fool. He was practised at seeing through my facades and over the years it had gotten no easier to keep anything from him. 

I reached for the doorknob, but instead put my hand in my coat’s inner pocket. I never took the ring out of it last night, which was probably for the best. If I had, chances are I would not have remembered where I put it. 

I did not know which would tear me up more to lose, the journal or the ring. Both were tremendously important in their own ways. One had sentimental value, it had been so important to both Justin and I that quite frankly I was shocked he was not buried with it. Grateful, though. 

The thought that he was not buried with the ring brought a thought to my mind that I had not considered before. He had always worn it, as far as I knew. Always kept it on and just lied about where it came from.

It seemed unlikely that it would simply fall off his hand. Unless he had quickly lost a tremendous amount of weight, it had never been loose on his hand. 

I wondered for a moment why he’d taken it off. 

I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. I could not afford to get worked up right now, I had research to do, people to see, inquiries to make. If it became a necessity later, I would handle the emotions then. 

The ring remained in my pocket as I left. Despite the questions it had dug up, I could not bring myself to leave it behind. For some odd, probably childish reason, having it with me made me feel a little less alone. A little less hopeless. It made me feel like Justin was still there with me. 

Which is yet another absurdly common thing grieving people say after their loved ones die. Though I suppose who am I to be a skeptic? 

I am a gods-damned wizard, after all. I am exactly the thing that most people are skeptical about. 

I set off to see Simon, and spent the entire drive to his favorite Chicago hotel - thank the gods that Simon was consistent, else this may have been a fruitless endeavour and a wonderful waste of my time - attempting to come up with reasons why he should not drag me kicking and screaming back to Archangel for a second time and keep me there until he was sure I was in my right mind. That was a task I did not expect to be easy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that don't know, Dyatlov Pass is in the Ural Mountains in the Sverdlovsk, Oblast region of Russia. In 1959 a group of 9 hikers died there, under very strange circumstances. Fair warning, it is a pretty strange and disturbing case, but if you're interested in reading more about it, you can do that here: https://allthatsinteresting.com/dyatlov-pass-incident
> 
> The mountain that Dyatlov Pass is located on is called 'Kholat Syakhl', which means 'Dead Mountain'. There's a great many theories about what exactly happened. Some of them are pretty wild but they're interesting to read, if unsolved mysteries are your sort of thing. 
> 
> There's also a video game based on the Dyatlov Pass incident, aptly named Kholat! 
> 
> The Nightmare Suggested Listening:
> 
> Slip (Elliot Moss)
> 
> Forest Fires (Axel Flovent)
> 
> Soldier (Fleurie)
> 
> Me and My Friends are Lonely (Matt Maeson)
> 
> The Hearse (Matt Maeson)
> 
> Thoughts (Michael Schulte)
> 
> Spirits (The Strumbellas)
> 
> Somebody Else (Flora Cash)
> 
> The Wisp Sings (Winter Aid)


	7. The Skull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon continues to be unhappy with this whole ordeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW again for a mention of body horror involving bones/skin
> 
> Morgan is picky about tea because I'm picky about tea and I'm projecting. He's also picky about clothes, and absolutely judges everybody's outfits. Constantly.

Even after taking a shower, painkillers, drinking four cups of coffee, and leaving my home in proper clothes, I still did not feel quite human again. I truly hoped that Simon would not pick up on that fact, though the odds of him missing it were slim. He had this way of knowing things I did not want him to know. 

Simon, as a member of the Senior Council, had a lot of expendable funds, and could afford to stay at a nice hotel when he visited Chicago. He had no trouble affording a few nights at the Alise. Which was good, because he could be quite picky about hotels. 

Regardless of his boarding choices for his stay, I was at least thankful that he had settled for a room on a lower floor. It was not certain that an elevator would break if I got in it, but it was not a risk I was terribly keen on taking. The things had always unnerved me, even back when there had to be operators in them. If stairs were a viable option I would almost always choose them. 

The Reliance building did still have quite an old elevator, though that did almost nothing to put me more at ease about the thing. 

As I ascended the stairs to Simon’s third floor room. I was still attempting to figure out what I was going to say to him, nothing seemed to sound right. I could not simply walk up and say “I rooted through the ashes of DuMorne’s house and I found his diary, I think he may have been mad”. That would certainly not go over well at all.

I wanted to avoid confrontation if possible. I did not wish to upset Simon if I could avoid it, anymore than he already was at least. 

Justin’s death had hurt him badly, and the stories that Dresden had spun before the Council were disgusting. To hear someone that he’d held so dear, that he’d treated as his own son for so long, be slandered in such a horrible way must have made him sick. 

Simon had attained his incredible ability to read me like an open large print book by knowing me for decades, and in return, I had also known him for decades. And by now I knew him well enough to guess that Dresden’s lies were weighing on him. He was wondering if they were true, how far his dear apprentice had fallen. He was wondering if he had gone wrong somewhere, if he had missed some sort of clue that - in the event Dresden’s tales were even true - would have told him Justin was on a dark path. Or if he had misinterpreted something, if he had been negligent in some way, if this was somehow his responsibility. 

First of all, I did not buy the boy’s story. I had known Justin DuMorne since I was sixteen years old, and never in all the years I spent incredibly close to him did he strike me as the sort of man who would wish to mind control children. Second of all, even if Dresden’s story was true, which I sincerely doubted, Simon was not at all responsible for it. Of that I was absolutely sure. 

Perhaps something good to say would come to me in the middle of conversation. That was about my last hope at this point.

I knocked on the door of his room, and it was only a few moments before I heard footsteps approaching and the dark mahogany door opened to reveal the face of Archangel’s head, Simon Pietrovich. 

“Ah, good morning rodnoy.” He sounded still a little groggy, and stood there in sweatpants and a bathrobe. I assumed I had caught him twenty or thirty minutes after he woke up. I had seen Simon in much worse states than this, pyjamas and slightly messy hair was nothing compared to dirt and blood covered with singed eyebrows and a leg so broken the bone stuck out of his skin. 

“Come in, come in my boy,” he said, stepping away from the door and beckoning me in. 

“Thank you, sir.” I greeted him with a polite bow of my head. “Good morning.”

“Sir?” He scoffed softly. “Simon, in private, you know this. A drink?” He closed the door behind me as I entered the room, and was greeted by the smell of coffee. I had already had four cups of coffee, which is by itself an unreasonable amount for one morning. But it seemed I was on quite the streak of self destructive and unhealthy things recently, so one more cup would not hurt. 

“Sure,” I nodded and stuffed my hands into my coat pockets. I felt like I could actually feel the weight of the tiny metal ring in my inner pocket against my chest, as foolish as that was. It was comforting, it made me feel just a little less alone. 

Simon hummed as he poured me a cup of coffee, adding cream and sugar without having to ask. He brought me the cup and gestured to a chair. 

“What has brought you here so early in the day?” 

I answered as I settled into my seat. “I have a few things I would like to ask you about.” 

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Is that so?” He paused to take a sip of his own coffee before continuing, narrowing his eyes at me as he examined my face. “This is serious business, hm? Why have you come?” Simon took another long drink, gazing at me over the edge of his mug with brows knitted together in concern. 

I took a tentative sip of my coffee, which was absolutely not meant to stall this conversation for just a few moments longer, because I so desperately did not wish to have it. Simon continued to stare at me over his cup, and there was not a doubt in my mind that he saw right through my attempt to appear nonchalant. 

“I have… Come across some information which we were previously unaware of.” My drink suddenly became exceptionally interesting and I stared at it with all the intensity I normally reserve for warlocks on trial. 

“What kind of information? Regarding what?” The suspicion in Simon’s tone was as clear as day, he made no effort to disguise it. He wanted me to be well aware of exactly how much he disapproved of what I was doing without having to explicitly say it again. He did not like to repeat himself, and it was clear he thought whatever I had brought to him would warrant him repeating himself. 

To be fair, he was not incorrect. 

It took me a few moments to summon the courage to speak. “Justin,” I admitted, not daring to look at his face when I spoke. I knew exactly what sort of expression he wore, and I did not need to see it. 

“Justin,” he repeated, his voice strained. “I told you it was not wise to continue digging into this matter.” 

“I could not just let this go.” 

“You should have.” 

“I-”

“But,” he cut me off before I could continue to argue with him. “If you have truly found new information, I would like to see it.” Only then did I look up from my coffee to see Simon’s face. His expression was careful, measured, but he could do nothing to hide the sincere pain in his eyes. Justin was practically Simon’s son. Pietrovich wanted to know the truth just as badly, if not more than I did, it seemed he was just less willing to dig around in the dirt and ashes for it. 

“I found-”

“Where?” He demanded. I was almost positive he already knew where I had gone, Simon was not stupid. But he wanted to hear me admit it. 

“The ruins.” I did not need to say more for him to know exactly where I meant. Simon responded only with a silent nod, a sip of his coffee, and a gesture for me to continue talking. 

I paused before I could tell him about the journal itself. I would do that later, if he seemed intrigued enough by my findings to not confiscate them. “Have you ever heard the name ‘Elias Martense’?” The strange name seemed a good place to begin, and for all Simon knew I had simply found it scribbled on a note. I would have to find a more eloquent way to tackle the skull, most of my concern about it came from the repeated mentions of speaking to it. 

“Elias Martense…” Simon’s brows knitted together, a frown formed on his face. “I do not believe I have.” 

That was unexpected. I assumed Simon would be able to provide at least a little context to the name, but to not recognize it at all? Perhaps Martense was a mundane human, or a practitioner whose power fell below the Council’s standards? And perhaps he was more important to the whole situation than I originally thought. 

“Ah,” I mumbled. “I see.” Simon was a member of the Senior Council, and thus had a lot of power, a lot of resources, and a lot of personal experience. There were very few things going on in the magical world that the Senior Council did not know about. If this Martense man had been a practitioner, and managed to slip entirely under the Council’s nose, especially if he had been affiliated with Justin… That was quite concerning.

“That name is written a few times in a... A journal I found.” I sincerely hoped that that would be worth the risk.

Both of Simon’s eyebrows went up at that, and for a few moments all he did was stare at me in surprise. He did not say anything for a long while, instead electing to finish his coffee, pour himself another cup, and sip that before he replied. 

“That is incredibly lucky.” And it was. I could still hardly believe how fortunate I was to have found an intact journal in the wreckage of a house burned down. “You found this in Justin’s home?”

I nodded quietly. There were a number of things I wished to say but I could not seem to find the words for any of them. 

Simon paused to take a long drink of coffee before speaking again. “Do you have it with you now?” 

I shook my head. “I left it at home.” As I said it I felt mildly ashamed that I had been so paranoid about Simon’s reaction. Really I should have known that he would not react so poorly as to confiscate my discoveries. I felt rather foolish for thinking that. 

Simon gave a small sigh and set his mug down on a side table. “Have you read through the entire thing?” 

“No, I… I only managed to make it through a few pages last night,” I admitted, again casting my gaze back down to my drink, of which there was very little left. I wished I had read more of the journal, I wished I had been able to push my feelings aside. But unfortunately, I had not. And for that I felt a little foolish as well. Perhaps if I had been able to continue, I would have found out more about the skull he kept mentioning, or perhaps there was information about the identity of Elias Martense. 

I supposed I would have plenty of time to read it at home, but I was still vaguely disappointed in myself. 

Simon gave a solemn nod. “I see..” He murmured. “And is ‘Elias Martense’ all you have come to ask me about today?” 

“There was one other thing, actually. Justin mentions a skull multiple times, and it seems that he spoke to it. And.. possibly heard it speak to him.” I was a little nervous about that part, only because it sounded so utterly unlike Justin. Though, I suppose everything he had done in the past… Eight or nine years was so utterly unlike Justin, it all made having conversations with a skull look entirely normal. 

That prompted a severe frown from my companion. Simon was about the only person I could think of that had personally known Justin longer than I had, of course he would be surprised at the notion of his apprentice, the man he trained and taught and raised, suddenly starting to have conversations with a skull.

Though I had to admit, the way Justin put it in the journal made it sound like the skull spoke back to him. And considering he was a man who, to my knowledge, had no history of auditory hallucinations… Either he had lost his mind very rapidly or he had somehow come by a talking skull, which gave him information. 

“That is… Certainly strange. And he never mentioned this skull to you?”

“No. I was hoping he had mentioned it to you.” 

“He did not.”

“Well, shit.” 

He paused for a moment, seeming to consider what he was about to say. “This Martense, there may be record of him in Archangel’s archives.” That was an idea. Archangel had extensive records, and aside from Edinburgh, it was probably my best bet at finding out more about the contents of Justin’s journal. Granted, I did not particularly like the idea of relinquishing the book to someone else’s possession, nor did I like the thought of going so far away from Chicago for an indeterminate amount of time. Simon was concerned about me, afterall. And the last time Simon was very concerned about me, I spent five years at Archangel almost constantly under the scrutiny of his watchful eye. 

“There probably is,” I agreed. Despite my concerns, I could not presently see any better option than making the pilgrimage to Archangel. There was information dating back hundreds of years, and if the Council had any record of Elias Martense, it would be at Archangel or Edinburgh. And I was even more unhappy about the idea of going to Edinburgh. 

Archangel at least was like home to me. I was comfortable there, I felt I could truly trust nearly everybody else around. When I was at Archangel, I felt at ease.

Edinburgh was quite a different story. 

It was always so much more formal there, it could become suffocating. Especially during periods of stress. There were more people at Edinburgh, which inevitably meant more people I was not overly fond of, as well. I was hard pressed to think of Archangel residents that I particularly disliked. Of course there were ones I was not especially close with, but none came to mind that I actively abhorred.

Making the trip to Archangel seemed my best option. I would simply have to set my aversion aside. 

Simon’s sigh shook me from my thoughts again, and I looked back up at him. 

“I feel I must remind you,” he began, giving me a stern look. “I still do not think it especially wise for you to pursue this.” 

I frowned, though I did not make an attempt to argue with him. 

“You are going to drive yourself mad, rodnoy.” There was a melancholic quality to Simon now that he did not normally possess. The pain he felt over Justin’s death, no matter how good he was at concealing his emotions, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, was written all over his face. There are some things that even those who have spent centuries concealing what they truly feel cannot keep down, and the sorrow that Simon felt was one of those things. 

A moment later the tiredness and despair on his face became as clear as day. “I do not wish to lose you as well. This is a difficult path you have set yourself on,” he paused for a moment to take a deep breath. “You are doing yourself no favours with this… Endeavor.” It seemed to take effort for him to not refer to it as an obsession. 

“I cannot just let this stand,” I murmured. “This is a terrible injustice, Simon, I must do  _ something. _ Don’t you want to know what happened?” Well, we already knew what happened, actually. “Why this happened?” 

“Of course I do, but there are better ways to find out than clandestine searching. This will become an obsession, Donald, and it will eat at your Soul until there is nothing left of it.” Simon’s tone was gravely serious. He sighed. “If you are going to insist on pursuing this, I am going to insist on being part of your investigation.”

It seemed unwise and quite frankly, rude to attempt to argue with him, so I remained quiet. 

“You will keep me informed about your findings, you will not chase any leads around without telling me where you are going, you will come to me if you need assistance, and you will not keep your pain in a bottle.” 

All of his conditions were reasonable, and I reminded myself again that he only wanted the best for me. He only wished to help. And if the price I had to pay for being allowed to continue my work was talking about my feelings, I would simply have to deal with it. The thought did not particularly please me, but unfortunately it would be necessary. 

I nodded. “As you wish.” Any good Warden knows that necessities are rarely enjoyable, but sometimes you just have to go along with it anyways. Difficult and unpleasant things must be done. It is simply the way of things. As the Council’s executioner, I considered myself quite well versed in unpleasant but necessary things. 

Simon gave a sharp nod. “Very good.” His expression was slightly surprised, and I assumed he had expected me to put up a fight about his demands. 

While I did not like them, they were not unsensible. And at this point, with such little evidence to work with, and such obscure content in the journal, I would be a fool to turn his help away. 

“Is this a formal invitation to accompany you back to Archangel, then?” 

“It is.” 

“I accept.” There was not a doubt in my mind that I would be able to find valuable information in Archangel’s archives. It may not answer all of my questions, but with luck it would at least answer some. And give me an excuse to not pay a visit to Edinburgh. 

“Very good,” he repeated quietly. “We leave…” Simon pulled a pocket watch from the pocket of his bathrobe and squinted at it. “In three hours. I trust that is more than enough time for you to prepare?” He turned his attention back to me with an expectant look as he slipped the watch back into his robe. 

“Certainly.” I did not plan to remain there for a terribly long time, and even if my stay extended beyond what I planned for I was positive that I had left a few articles of clothing there on my last visit. There was little I needed to collect, and I had plenty of time to drive home and back. 

“Go, then, and return swiftly. I have a couple of questions for you,” he murmured, rising from his seat. He hesitated a moment before continuing. “And I would quite like to have a look at that journal before we leave, as well.” 

I resisted the urge to bite my lip, an old nervous habit I had broken not long ago. “Of course,” I agreed, albeit a little reluctantly. The conversations I was sure would come from Simon reading even just the first few pages were not ones I was looking forward to, but they were simply another unpleasant but necessary aspect of my investigation. 

Simon regarded me with a scrutinizing look for a moment or two, before giving me a sharp nod. “Hurry back,” he said, disappearing out of view presumably to shower and dress. 

I murmured another quiet “Of course,” more to myself than Simon as I rose and left the room. The door shut behind me with a light click, and I strode briskly back to my truck. 

The drive home was spent making a mental checklist of the items I would need, which was fortunately quite short. Traffic had only gotten worse during my visit, and I did not have room to risk being late getting back to the Alise. 

Perhaps that was just my own paranoia, as the drive was not long regardless, but I would much rather be safe than sorry. 

It did not take me long, once I had gotten home, to hurry around my house and collect what items I needed to bring. The journal was paramount, of course, so that was first. Beyond that it was merely basic things like a toothbrush, clothing, whichever book I was currently in the middle of. I made sure to grab a couple bags of mint tea as well. There was tea at Archangel, but they rarely had my favourite kind, and I had a feeling I was going to need it if I was to spend the next several days scouring both the vast archives and Justin’s journal. This task promised to be a taxing and painful one and I loathed the thought of only having apple cinnamon tea for it. 

On my way out, I was sure to stuff my scarf and leather gloves in with the rest of what I was bringing. I slung a long heavy coat over my arm as well. Russia had a tendency to be rather chilly, at times. I did not wish to go unprepared and spend my time there as a popsicle. 

With my necessary possessions tossed into a duffel bag, I hastened back to the hotel and attempted to not dwell on the interrogation waiting for me in Simon’s room. Surely his questions would not be ones I wished to answer, but I had agreed to his terms and thus I had to, whether I wanted to or not. 

I had taken a Way back in order to avoid both traffic and the chore of having to park the truck somewhere public where it would be least likely to get towed or ticketed in my absence. A parking ticket was simply a small, annoying issue I did not feel up to dealing with anytime in the near future. Not to mention, I was still unsure exactly how long I would be gone for, and even if I did not return to find my truck ticketed or towed, there was the possibility of it being broken into or stolen as well. Really, all of the above were things I would very much prefer to avoid. 

Back at the Alise I took the stairs two at a time. Long legs are good for a great many things, and they certainly make taking the stairs more often than not far quicker. Simon opened the door before I even managed to knock. 

He was no longer clad in pyjamas and a bathrobe, having traded them out for a shirt and trousers that, despite being in immaculate condition, I was quite sure were older than me. His short hair was damp from a shower, and all together he did not look like he lived under a bridge. Which was quite a marvel, actually. For a member of the Senior Council, Simon looked like he lived under a bridge quite often. 

Simon’s occasionally poor taste in clothing had always gotten on both Justin’s and my nerves. I could hardly count the times that one of us had to pick a different tie or entirely nix an outfit . Quite frankly it was a marvel that Simon had actually let us fuss over his clothing so much, but I could honestly say he always looked better for it. 

He gave my bag a cursory glance and beckoned me in. I had barely closed the door behind me before he started speaking. 

“May I see the journal please?” 

I nodded and slipped the bag off my shoulder, unzipping it and digging around until I found the little leather book. Handing it to Simon, I set the bag down and sunk back into my chair from earlier. 

Simon resumed his seat as well and opened the book, gazing at the pages with a mixture of extreme scrutiny and despair in his eyes. We sat in silence for several minutes while he looked over the first few pages, and eventually,  _ finally _ , he closed the journal and set it down on the side table. His eyes were slightly reddened behind his silver rimmed spectacles, and he blinked several times in an attempt to avoid allowing tears to escape. 

It was several moments until he spoke.

“Well…” he sniffled quietly. “I.. Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” he murmured. I knew that was not an easy thing for him to say, all things considered. This whole situation had been very hard on him, and I was quite sure he was still rather displeased that I was digging into this matter in the first place. But Simon wanted to know the truth too, he wanted justice just as badly as I did. 

“Of course.” I hesitated a moment before I continued. “You deserved to know, this is important to us both.”

Simon nodded slightly and took a slow deep breath. “I… I believe I shall wait to ask questions until we get to Archangel. Perhaps this evening, over tea.” 

“As you wish.” 

“I think it is almost time for us to go,” he murmured, pulling his watch from his pocket and glancing at it. He rose, picking the journal back up and offering it to me as he stepped away from his chair. I tucked the book back into my bag and zipped it, slipping my gloves out at the same time. 

Simon disappeared from my view for a moment and then returned with a bag of his own and his coat in hand. “Leaving a little early will not hurt us,” he said as he shrugged the coat on. It was a little too heavy for Chicago’s current weather, but it would be necessary once we entered the Way and reached Russia. He slung the bag over his shoulders once he had buttoned his coat and adjusted his scarf.

I followed his example and pulled on my own long, dark grey coat and gloves, electing to hold off on the scarf unless I found I needed it later on. There was a bit of travelling to do before the temperatures would start to drastically drop, and I did not particularly feel like sweating until we reached that point. 

Simon made quick work of checking out as we left, and before long we were in a Way. 

The journey was largely spent in silence. Surely both of us had plenty to say, but we were unsure how to say it, or even where to start. A great deal had happened in the past month, and this evening would be the first time we really got to actually sit down and talk. We had had brief conversations recently, of course, but not an extensive, private, intimate one. 

As much as I hate to admit it, I was quite nervous. 

“We are nearly there,” Simon murmured after a very long stretch of silence, glancing briefly down at his watch and then back up ahead of us. “It will be nice to have you home again, rodnoy. We have missed you dearly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Alise Hotel is actually called the Staypineapple now, and I was gonna have Morgan make fun of it before I realised that the name change happened after the story takes place. The name change happened, as far as I can tell, in 2018 which is a solid almost 30 years after this story.  
> The building has some neat history though, and if you wanna read about it you can do that here:  
> https://storiedhotels.com/chicago-hotels/the-staypineapple-hotel-in-chicago-a-story-about-prohibition-al-capone-and-one-infamous-dentist/
> 
> The Skull Suggested Listening (Which was hard as heck to do for this chapter, but I hope this is a little good at least)
> 
> After the Storm (Mumford and Sons)
> 
> See Through (Billie Eilish)
> 
> I'm Not A Saint (Billy Raffoul)
> 
> Nobody (Hozier)
> 
> In love with a ghost (Flowers feat. Nori)


	8. The Fortress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan returns to Archangel after a great many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grace Eva Slevil is an oc - A Belgian Warden about 20 years younger than Morgan, who's been stationed at Archangel for the past thirty years or so.  
> Darcy Burke is also an oc, about 40 years older than Morgan, been stationed at Archangel since the late 1880's.  
> Elias and Dion are ocs too, but you don't get anymore information about them yet.
> 
> This chapter gave me a bit of trouble, sorry it took so long to get out.

It is easy to forget the true majesty of a place once you have become so comfortable there, once that place has become like a second home to you. When you are accustomed to a place, it becomes regular. And then, everytime you return to it after being away for a long time, it all comes rushing back. The majesty of a place like Archangel is enough to knock the air out of your chest. 

The great tower loomed over us once we had stepped out of the Way, as elegant and awesome as it had been for the past hundred years. It stood impossibly tall, and had an ever present air of authority, of certainty. Like nothing in the entire universe could even hope to change it. 

Staring up at such a magnificent tower, especially one as old and storied as Archangel, makes you feel so very small. 

“Welcome home, rodnoy,” Simon murmured as we approached the vast steps and three sets of double doors that lead into the entrance hall. I barely noticed the howling, chilly wind as we ascended the stairs. I was too enamoured with the beauty of an extraordinary place I had not seen in far too long. 

The vast, elegant oak doors opened into an even greater hall. Filled with warm homely colours, fine but simple furniture, tapestries, a myriad of paintings, it was astounding. The first time I had entered this hall, I truly had not known where to look. There was so much elegance everywhere, as a young boy fresh from a small German hamlet I was in utter awe of the place. I used to think there was nowhere in the world that could possibly be more beautiful than this place. 

Edinburgh, with all of it’s glitz, glamour and frills and five-hundred year old uncomfortable chairs, elegant decorations, and overall extravagance, simply did not compare. Sure it was pretty, but in all the time I had spent there I had never felt as comfortable, as welcome there as I did here. 

Archangel was truly a world of its own, and it was a magnificent one. 

The doors swung shut behind us, but I did not have a chance to remove my scarf before a tall, lean woman with long brown hair seemed to materialize in front of me. Grace could always do that, I could swear that she genuinely did not make sound unless she actively wanted to. 

“Donald!” She chirped happily, immediately wrapping her arms around my midsection and squeezing me in a hug. “Gods, how long has it been?” She knew the answer, of course. Grace had a tendency to keep track of things like how long it has been since I have visited, and how many times she has bested any given poor pitiful Warden at strip poker. 

She did that more often than any of us would care to admit. 

“Far too long,” I said, squeezing her in return. She had been at Archangel for quite some time now. I could remember the day she was stationed here, she’d been all bright eyes and excited and we had all thought she was just the most delightful girl. 

And then she challenged us to a game of cards. 

“You’ve got that right,” she smiled innocently at me, but do not be fooled. Grave Slevil is one of the least innocent people alive, and that is the hill I would die on. “You _must_ visit more often! We’ve all missed you so dearly.” She looked delightful, like someone who would give you a muffin basket. With her pleasant features, soft skin and green eyes. But I had known Grace long enough to know that she would much rather play poker and steal my trousers than bake muffins for anyone. 

“I shall try to arrange that.” 

She grinned devilishly, “Good, you had better.” 

“Or perhaps you should come visit me in Chicago sometimes,” I returned her grin, though I was quite sure that mine did not look nearly as devious as hers did. “If it is so terrible to be away for so long.” 

“Ooh! I certainly will.” I may have made a terrible mistake, but such is life sometimes. Grace coming to visit would be perfectly fine so long as I avoided alcohol and remembered that playing cards with her is dangerous. “That would be only fair, after all… And I’ve never been to Chicago, so you shall have to show me around.” 

“He will have to show you The Bean,” Simon suggested, an absolutely shiteating grin on his face. One of the strangest art installments I had ever laid eyes on, but it was certainly unique. Of course, it was not actually called The Bean, but the damn thing looks like a bean, and thus that is what it will be called. 

Not to mention Simon knew I hated the damn thing. 

“The Bean?”

“You will see,” I muttered. “It’s ridiculous.” Which it was. Fortunately I was saved from having to further discuss it by another Warden stationed at Archangel - Burke, I believe was his name. 

He tentatively approached, clearly reluctant to interrupt whatever surely important conversation the three of us were having. Despite having a good forty years on me, he looked surprisingly young. I had no clue how he managed it. Clear skin, little to no grey in his hair, the bastard had still looked fresh out of his apprenticeship when he was one hundred. Burke’s perpetual youth was a mystery to me, and I had to admit I was a little bit jealous about how his skin never seemed to retain scars. I had watched that man get impaled before and yet it left no lasting mark. 

Meanwhile I still had a scar from when I fell out of a tree as a child. 

“Sir,” he said, giving us a polite little bow of greeting. “New reports from our scouts in the mountains have arrived.” 

In recent years Simon had finally found the time and resources to properly investigate the Ural Mountains, and had been rather consumed with it as of late. He very much poured himself into his work to avoid thinking about Justin’s death, and both he and I knew it. 

Hell, he was investigating the Ural Mountains in the first place because of what happened to Justin all those years ago, and then what happened in the 50’s… I was surprised it took him this long to launch a thorough investigation. The place had been on his radar for decades now. I suppose though it may have been because the particular pass was quite desolate, and he had hoped that no one else would venture up there. 

Simon’s smile turned to an expression of intrigue. “My apologies, rodnoy, but I must go. I shall meet with you this evening, yes? In the library.” 

I nodded, a little relieved that the impending conversation was hours away. I would have time to prepare myself for Simon’s questions, which I was positive would require a great deal of mental fortitude to deal with. 

“Ochen’ khorosho,” he mumbled as he gave my arm a half hearted squeeze and followed Warden Burke off down one of Archangel’s many winding, maze-like corridors. 

Before Simon was even out of sight Grace began dragging me by the sleeve down yet another one of the fortress’ confusing halls, in the direction of the resident Warden’s personal quarters. Where I had once lived, and even during the periods where I mainly stayed elsewhere, I would often try to find an excuse to come visit. 

“Is this a kidnapping?” I raised an eyebrow at her. I had been back here for less than thirty minutes and I was already feeling much more relaxed than I had in awhile. Archangel had always had that effect on me. This place was home to some of the Council’s most skilled warriors. It was a place where many great Earth mages trained and lived and practised. Archangel was, at the time, the safest place in the entire world.

“Probably, we shall see where it goes,” she said, not sparing me a glance as she continued to pull me through the halls. Granted, I was not exactly resisting. If I had been so inclined I could have easily brought us both to a very abrupt stop. Though I was curious as to why she felt the need to pull me by my sleeve, it was not as though I did not know my way around the vast structure. I had spent my entire, very long life in and out of this place. I knew it like the back of my hand. 

“That is a concerning idea,” I mumbled. Grace, despite her kind appearance, was nearly as troublesome as I had been as an apprentice. Which was quite a feat, really. I used to be incredibly mischievous. You do not become the sole reason for a number of evocations being banned in the barracks by collecting bottle caps. 

It did not take long to reach the halls lined with personal quarters, as well as a couple well furnished sitting rooms. There were not very many parts of Archangel I would describe as truly lavish but the parlours were certainly one. Simon did not have a particular taste for flashy decorations, which in truth was probably for the best. This tower was filled with Earth wizards, several old, several who had been through many vicious wars, several who had nightmares and a tendency to awaken violently from them. On the occasion that the building were to… Shake a little, expensive frivolities are frequently fragile, and tend to break very easily.

“How long will you be here for?” Grace asked, coming to a stop in front of a set of heavy wooden doors painted dark green. “A while, I hope.” She gave me a pointed look, as if to say _‘Stay for a while, we both know it will do you good.’_ And she was not wrong. Surely spending a couple weeks, or even a few months at Archangel would do me a world of good. But such a vacation would have to wait until after I was finished looking into Justin’s death. 

She was certainly not a fool, and of course the entire Council and most of our allies had heard about Justin DuMorne, a former Warden, the Apprentice and heir of Simon Pietrovich, being torched by an apprentice we did not know he had. The vast majority of the Council was also aware that DuMorne and I had been, at least, good friends. Though I would not have been surprised to learn that several of Archangel’s residents had guessed at the true nature of our involvement. We had spent a great deal of time here together, and in our youth we were not exactly skilled at subtlety. Grace undoubtedly knew that his death was weighing on me - especially now thanks to the trial - even if she did not know how close we had actually been. 

I could remember the first time I had kissed him. It had been cliche, awkward, and if we had been caught it would have caused serious problems within the Council. We had been scavenging for something to eat here, in the small hours of the morning long after we were supposed to be asleep. Another Warden - one that was not particularly fond of either of us, because of course - came along and we’d hidden in a pantry. He’d looked so beautiful, grinning evilly in the dim light as though we had just pulled off the most complex and clever heist in history. I’d kissed him then, the first time I’d ever kissed anyone. It was, as per usual for first kisses, awkward and not even remotely skillful. But at the same time, it was sweet, and wonderful, and I would not have had it any other way.

“Unfortunately, no. I intend to stay a couple days, at most.” Grace looked distinctly displeased by that, but she did not attempt to argue with me. I was grateful for that, at least. 

She sighed, pushing one door open and beckoning me in. “As you say.”

I gave her a brief nod of thanks as I strode past her into the room and dropped my bag on the bed. It was the same room I nearly always stayed in when I came here, modestly furnished and small and perfect. The doors were green, too, which was certainly not the main reason I liked this room so much. 

“Why’ve you come, then? If you’re not going to stay for long?” She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, raising an eyebrow at me. 

I was not particularly in the mood to go into detail about my current endeavours, but I also have never been one for lying to those I call my friends. “I need to do a bit of research,” I conceded, hoping she would not push for detail, but knowing that she likely would. 

“Oh how fun,” Grace drawled sarcastically. She’d never been a fan of paperwork, research, archiving, or work of any kind that could be done sitting at a desk. Grace was a woman of action. “Are you at least looking into something interesting?” 

I shrugged. “I suppose I shall let you know if it is interesting once I have researched it.” 

She took a moment to stare at me as I removed my scarf and coat, as if she hoped I would elaborate, but did not want to request it. 

“You’d better,” she finally said. “I’d hate to get dragged in as an assistant, so I’ll leave you to it. Have.. fun?” 

“I will try my best.” 

She gave me a little salute as she left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. I left my bag where it was, not yet bothering to unpack it. I only pulled the journal out and then left for the library. 

Archangel’s library was just as incredible as the rest of it. It’s extensive collection was second only to Edinburgh itself. It had information on just about anything you could dream of. A four hundred year old first hand account of a werebear in Scandinavia? Right beside the fifteen volume collection of information on the Red Court’s saliva. Need to find obscure Russian folklore tales from a town that no one has heard of in fifty years? Why, it would be right there beside the memoirs of the third Merlin, all seven installments. You could find just about anything you could ever need on Archangel’s shelves, and anything that it did not have was more than likely something one of a kind, kept under lock and key in Edinburgh. 

I spent the entire day in the library, forgoing breakfast and lunch in favor of focusing on my research. I scoured the shelves, searched through manifold books, examined more sources than I could be bothered to count, and nowhere did I find any mention of anyone by the name of Elias Martense. Or the name Martense, in general. If the Council was even aware of this man’s existence, they had evidently forgotten to write it down. 

It seemed that he had been gifted at hiding from us, whoever he was. Or perhaps, is. I really had no way of knowing if this man was alive, or if he was some practitioner of a bygone age. 

As the hours wore on and afternoon began to shift into evening, I began to fear I would indeed have to make the pilgrimage to Edinburgh to find any information on Elias Martense. Of course, that was assuming the Council did actually have information on him, and he had not eluded us for however many years he had been around. There was no assurance that we knew anything about him at all, let alone anything that would help my current endeavours along. 

Locating this man began to seem like a fruitless endeavour, and I very much wanted to give up on it. But, if he was alive, he may know something about Justin. If I could find him, he may be able to help me. As unpleasant as searching was, I had to keep trying. And if I exhausted all of Archangel’s sources and turned up nothing, I would simply have to go to Edinburgh and try again. Perhaps if I asked very nicely, Simon would even go with me so I did not have to deal with nearly everybody there myself.

One thing of interest did turn up after several hours of searching, though it had nothing to do with Martense, or a skull. There was one text, a book written decades ago by some Warlock who only signed their initials. D.G. I did not recognize them, but I was silently grateful to whoever they were for writing something useful and in depth about psychomancy. 

Initially I only picked the book to see if it mentioned Martense at all, which it did not, but I found other intriguing things in it. 

Most Council wizards do not have a very good understanding of psychomancy. It is, of course, strictly forbidden. And the best way to learn about magic is through practising it, which we cannot do with this. Most of what we know comes from our many years fighting it, but that can only give us so much knowledge. A warlock writing a book about it is rather exceptional, despite this was probably the only copy of it, and it was kept under lock and key in one of the world’s most secure fortresses. Very few would be allowed to access it, even though it seemed a great deal of it was nonsensical. 

The more I read the less I understood, and I realized at some point nearly seventy pages in that the reason this had not been destroyed was because the warlock who wrote it must have been truly out of their mind. Little of it seemed to be useful at all, and even less was written in an easily understandable fashion. 

I sighed and set the old volume aside. There had been a few points that seemed intriguing, regarding the darker shades of telepathy and the long term effects of psychomancy on an isolated victim, but I would have to try to make real sense of them later. According to my watch it was nearly eight in the evening and Simon had just arrived. 

Fortunately for us the library was rather vacant at this hour, most of the tower’s residents were probably congregating in the parlours or having dinner. There was little concern for people overhearing our conversation, and I doubted there would be many people here willing to eavesdrop on Simon anyways. 

“Evening, rodnoy,” he greeted as he strode over to me and took a seat on the other side of the table I’d claimed, which was currently covered with varying books, papers, a pencil I had long since lost track of, and Justin’s journal. 

“Good evening, Simon.” I gave him a polite nod as he sat down. He looked rather exhausted and a little frustrated. It seemed that whatever reports he had received had not pleased him very much, which was unfortunate. I rather wanted to know exactly what the hell was going on up in those accursed mountains too. 

“How is the research?” 

I shrugged. “Not particularly spectacular.”

“Have you found anything about Martense?”

“Not a thing. It’s like he does not even exist.”

Simon looked a little bit surprised. He’d expected his prestigious fortress’s extensive library to yield something useful, it was a shock to both of us that thus far, I had found nothing. 

“Nothing,” he said, somewhere between a question and a statement, his tone one of disbelief.

“Nothing,” I confirmed. 

“Moi bogi,” he cursed. “There must be something here. I will help you search tomorrow, we will find something.” I appreciated his optimism, it was refreshing after hours of disappointment and frustration. “If this man has ever had a run in with the Council, or even just other practitioners, we will find out. We will turn up something,” he mumbled. I recognized the faint desperation in his voice. If he was going to let me chase the truth of his apprentice’s fate, he’d very much like me to actually discover it. 

“We will.” Hopefully sooner rather than later. I wished to waste no time bringing to light what really happened to Justin DuMorne. 

Simon took a slow deep breath and then looked at me seriously. “Right now, though,” he began, “we must talk.” 

The time had come, I was not excited. 

It took him a moment to start speaking, but finally he asked his first question. “How… How are you faring, my boy?” 

I shrugged halfheartedly. There was no point in trying to brush the question off when Simon already knew the answer. He just wanted to hear me say it, he wanted me to acknowledge that I was in a pitiful state. “Not very well,” I sighed. “I miss him. I hate how this all turned out.” 

“So do I,” he said. “We were lucky to know him, and better for it too.” Simon’s voice wavered slightly as he spoke. It was easy to forget just how deeply this hurt him. He had spent upwards of two-hundred years at least perfecting his poker face; it was next to impossible to read him if he did not wish to be read. But the death of his apprentice, the death of the man who was to be his successor, the closest thing Simon has had to a child of his own, who he raised and taught and cared for as though he truly was Justin’s father. It weighed on him, significantly more than most other things have or ever would. 

The death of someone so close, so dear, as Justin was to Simon, it’s one of those things that you cannot truly move on from. It’s one of those things that takes a little piece of your Soul away, and leaves a hole in your heart that can never truly be mended. Simon would miss DuMorne for the rest of his life, he’d forever feel that little speck of emptiness until he too passed into the afterlife. 

That was a painful thought. Neither of us would ever be truly whole again, but… Such is the way of things, unfortunately. Pain is a part of life, and there was nothing I could do to change this situation. Despite how I may have briefly considered, in my grief, taking up necromancy as a hobby, that was not going to happen. And even if I did lose my mind and drift into black magic, what would return in his stead may not truly be Justin DuMorne. Necromancy was not a difficult thing to screw up, and if I did, I would only cause him more suffering than he had already gone through. 

Not to mention how swiftly I would be stripped of my honors and position, tried, and executed.

I nodded solemnly, unable to find any words suitable for the moment. 

“You have not been drinking, correct?” Simon gave me a serious look, full of fatherly authority and concern. 

I sighed. “Only three times, since…” I vaguely gestured, hoping he would get the message without me having to elaborate. 

He looked like he wanted to chastise me, but he did not. He was quiet for several moments before saying anything else. “You must find a better way to deal..” Simon’s voice was quiet and he sounded worn out. I felt as though I had disappointed him, and I was quite sure I had. 

“I know,” I murmured, hardly daring to speak aloud. 

“You cannot fall into old habits, Donald.” They are difficult to break, and even harder to stay out of. I had learned that the hard way many times. “Especially now. You realise, I am sure, how dangerous this may be? What you may run into, chasing this around? You are not a fool, rodnoy, do not put yourself in such jeopardy.”  
“I am not going to get myself killed.”

“Or hurt.”

“I am a Warden, getting hurt is a large part of my job. I cannot avoid it sober and well rested let alone… Now.” 

“Your current escapade does not fall under the duties of a Warden.”

He… May have had me there. Though I would rather like to point out that what I was doing was potentially exposing a warlock who had proved himself dangerous, which would be beneficial to the Council. Not to mention, I became a Warden to fight for justice, to uphold what was good and right in this world. Searching for my friend’s murderer, such was undoubtedly the pursuit of justice. I had set out on a truly noble mission, something that had to be done and it frankly seemed like I was the only one willing to do it. The killer of a good man cannot be allowed to simply escape justice.

“I suppose.” 

“This is already bad for you, rodnoy. Please do not make things worse for yourself.” Simon could only fix so much. He did not want me to break myself beyond repair. I’d nearly managed it a few times in the past, the difference was back then Justin was around to help pick up the pieces too. He was there for me to talk to if I did not wish to speak to Anastasia or Simon. He had been a shoulder to cry on since we were young, and I had done the same for him. Now that he was gone… I suppose both Simon and I were unsure exactly how I would handle things. I still hardly knew what to expect of myself. 

“I am not going to.” 

“I certainly hope that is true.” He was quiet for several moments before he continued to speak. “What is that for?” Simon asked, gesturing to the book I’d been looking through when he’d arrived. The dusty, useless one by some warlock by the initials D.G. 

“It had a few intriguing pieces,” I shrugged. “It is not often that I see something written by a warlock. Most pieces like this have been destroyed.”

Simon nodded solemnly, he’d always hated the fact that the Council felt the need to get rid of things created by warlocks. He thought perhaps if we kept the things warlocks wrote, we could study them, learn from them. We could be better prepared to face black magic in the field. In certain cases, I would tend to agree. There were certainly things we could learn from the writings of warlocks, but if we were going to allow those things to exist we would have to keep them under lock and key. If such a piece got out into the public, became accessible by anyone who knew where to look, I feared we would end up with too many young warlocks thinking they could play God. 

We already had far too many of those, as it was. And that was a true shame. Far too many children with potential got started on a dark path very young, and once they began to descend it was difficult to pull them out of the darkness. If it could even be done at all. 

“It is a rare thing, isn’t it? I believe that one is only allowed to exist because it is so…”

“Ridiculous?”  
“Yes, precisely.” 

The thing really was incredibly nonsensical. If this book were to get into the hands of a sixteen year old fool with magical potential and an appetite for power, it would do them very little good. Hell, it was doing me very little good and I was nowhere near a beginner with magic. 

“It does not do a very adept job at explaining… Anything,” Simon said, grimacing slightly. “I had hoped it would be informative about psychomancy. I wanted to use it to develop new methods to defend against it, but the book proved next to useless.” 

“Do you know who wrote it? There are only initials here.” 

“It was a fellow by the name of Goldberg, Dion Goldberg I believe. I encountered him myself back before I even ascended to the Senior Council.” That was quite a long time ago, Simon had ascended to the Senior Council when I was very young, so much so that I barely remembered it. I had not known him well then, to me he just seemed like another posh old man who would surely afford me no notice. How desperately wrong I’d been. 

I had not heard the name Dion Goldbeg before, so I assumed he’d been executed or killed quite a while ago. 

“Is this man still alive?” I sincerely doubted it, but if he was, perhaps he knew Elias Martense, or something about the skull. Or perhaps he would be kind enough to explain his mad ravings to me if I was able to track him down. 

“I do not know for sure, but I doubt it. He was a madman,” Simon shrugged. “It seems men like him to not often last very long.” 

I sighed, leaning back in my chair and brushing several stray pieces of hair behind my ear. “If by chance you hear something about him, would you let me know? He’s as good a lead as any on Martense, I suppose.”

Simon gave me a curt nod. “Of course. Though, I would not get my hopes up, if I were you. Goldberg was not a sane man, and I would be shocked to find out he had a large number of friends. Especially if said friends were warlocks savvy enough to entirely elude the Council.” He had a point. If Martense was indeed a warlock, he had been smart enough to remain unnoticed for gods know how long. Surely he did not do that by associating with lunatics. 

Though, as unlikely as it was that Martense kept company with this Goldberg man, it was currently all I had. 

“I will try to curb my enthusiasm,” I muttered under my breath. “I would hate to end up disappointed.”

Simon gave me a look. The Simon equivalent of the looks Anastasia often gives me, which was much kinder. He looked significantly less like he wanted to throttle me. 

Anastasia had developed her looks for things such as disappointment, irritation, and warnings when I was an apprentice, and they had lost little of their intimidating quality over the years. 

“Go get some rest, rodnoy. You look exhausted.” Simon rose from his chair as he spoke, briefly stretching his arms. “Continue your work tomorrow, I will help you look then. I am sure we will have more patience, and more success after we both get a good night’s sleep.”

As much as I would have liked to stay there and continue to fruitlessly dig through seemingly endless books and papers, I could hardly keep my eyes open. 

“As you say,” I grumbled, rising from my own chair and taking a moment to make my worktable orderly. “Goodnight then, Simon.” 

“Goodnight Donald, rest well.” As if to prove he was tired, he yawned as he left the room, giving me a brief wave as he went too. 

I sighed and yawned as well. I returned to my room as soon as I had finished fixing up the table I’d been working at, making the books and papers into tidy stacks. It was a relief to get there, be able to take my suit off and put comfortable clothes on. 

It was even more of a relief to finally collapse into bed after what felt like an exhausting day. I hadn’t even done very much, but I still felt utterly drained. I laid down with the hope that tomorrow would be a better day, and gods willing I would sleep peacefully tonight, and have good dreams. I could certainly use some, after the almost exclusive nightmares I’d suffered for the past month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ochen' khorosho (очень хорошо) - "Very well"  
> Moi bogi (мои боги) - "My gods"
> 
> The Fortress Suggested Listening:
> 
> Move Along (All American Rejects)
> 
> Cup Song/When I'm Gone (Anna Kendrick)
> 
> We Move Like the Ocean (Bad Suns)
> 
> The Wolves (Ben Howard)
> 
> Take me home (Cash Cash)


End file.
